


Paris for One

by xerxesun



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Paris, Control Freak - Freeform, Fluff, Harry is a good boyfriend, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I like you, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Paris - Freeform, Zayn is a good boyfriend, artist, boyfriend - Freeform, failed artist, harry is awkward, harry is supportive of zayn, i like you but maybe we are not meant to be, like seriously really fluff, not band things, shitty boyfriend, trip to Paris, we are meant to be, xander is a pain in the ass, zayn is a painter, zayn is charming and introverted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerxesun/pseuds/xerxesun
Summary: Harry Styles, 24, is a man of many talents but travelling alone is certainly not one of them. Travelling alone to Paris for the first time without his boyfriend is by far the last thing on his bucket list yet he finds himself in the train station with luggage, nerves and smell of Parisian perfume, not knowing what the hell is going to happen.Zayn Malik, 25, is a failure—an artist with no inspiration left, a waiter with little attitude and a man still caught up in old romance, left by his ex-girlfriend for simply being "too much".And when Harry Styles shows up in Zayn Malik's cafe, tired, whiny and alone, neither of them think that fate would turn out the way it did.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Kudos: 57





	Paris for One

**Author's Note:**

> This book is loosely based—and definitely inspired—by "Paris For One" by the lovely Jojo Moyes.

Harry glances at the clock for the ninety-ninth time since he arrived and slowly starts chewing on his bottom lip. _He is still not here_ , he thinks nervously, playing with his fingers. As the door to the station opens, he jerks his head up, hoping to see Xander walking up to him with a smug smirk and relieve his stress but all he sees is a family with loud children and parents who haven't slept in a long time.

"He still can make it," he mutters under his breath to reassure himself. Of course, Xander wouldn't hang him out to dry. He wouldn't ruin his first trip to Paris. He wouldn't be that cruel, would he?

Certainly not.

"He can still make it. He will make it," Harry breathes the words as he throws another glance to the clock. One-hundredth time...

"The five-thirty train to Paris is due to departure in ten minutes. Please get to your seats and take all your luggage," the sound echoes in the station and as if on the cue, his phone chimes. He eagerly pulls it out, hoping to have a text from Xander, asking him where he should find him but instead, it's a notification from his Calendar app.

"Shite," he curses and decides it's only best if he texts Xander.

**The train is about to leave. Where are you?**

It's the fourth text he has sent since he left his house and yet again, Xander hasn't responded to any of them. This time, though, the phone chimes in reply and Harry eagerly takes it out with a relieved smile but the smile vanishes as soon as he reads the words.

**Stuck at work. Can't make it, babe.**

He gulps, almost choking on his salvia. He feels a nervous bubble rising from his gut.

**Are you catching the next train? Should I wait?**

He anxiously chews on his nails as he is waiting for a reply, his green eyes begging to screen to light up with something cheerful.

**Don't wait. you go ahead, babe x**

This time, he certainly chokes on his breath, too surprised to even feel angry. What does he mean? Where should they meet? How will he find his way around in Paris? He waits for Xander to enter the station with a teasing smile and announce that he was messing with him. (He does love messing with him a little more than he should.) But he doesn't come. Neither does another explaining text.

**Ok then, meet me at the hotel.**

He waits for a few more seconds, just in case. Then, the speakers announce the last warning for the train to Paris so Harry turns on his heels, throws the phone in his pocket and walks towards the train as his hands are clenched onto his luggage.

———

"What do you mean you aren't coming?" Niall said with a surprised face, his hand—with a can of beer in it—frozen in the air. Harry smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his hair, feeling his slightly long locks.

The boys—Harry, Niall and Nick—has always travelled to Brighton on the first weekend of November for six years straight. The trip had survived a messy breakup (Niall and his ex-girlfriend, Olivia. She had thrown a plate at him, calling him a worthless knob simply because he had forgotten her birthday), a broken leg (Harry had fallen from stairs while leaving his workplace) and a shitty haircut. (Nick had gotten a buzzcut when he was drunk out of his mind—he looked like a proper frog—he refused to leave his flat). No one had missed it for six straight years, since they met at college.

"Well, Xander asked me to go on a trip with him—Paris. Couldn't exactly say no," Harry explained, a faint blush on his face. How good it sounded.

" _Xander?_ " Niall exclaimed, this time, putting his bear down. "Xander as in _your Xander?_ As in the guy you are _dating?_ "

"Yeah," Harry felt a slight frown creeping on his face. "He says he can't believe I've never been."

"I went to Paris once," Nick said thoughtfully. "On a school trip. I snogged a French girl in the Louvre's bathroom—turned out she was German after all." Harry chuckled at the statement but Niall wasn't having it so gracefully as he ignored Nick and went on.

"Xander? I-am-too-cool-to-get-a-fucking-decent-haircut Xander? I-am-a-fucking-arsehole-but-i-won't-admit-it Xander?" Niall growled, earning a hurt look from Harry. "Hey, I don't mean to be rude but I thought he was more of a..."

"Knob?" Nick suggested.

"Loser."

"Prat."

"Enough, boys," Harry said, slightly annoyed that they were going on like this about his boyfriend. "Obviously, you were wrong. He is Xander, I-take-my-boyfriend-to-Paris-for-a-romantic-weekend Xander," Harry growled but a dreamy smile appeared on his lips all the same.

"And it had to be the same weekend as _our_ weekend," Niall sneered, rolling his eyes dramatically, flipping his non-existing long hair back to make a show.

"I am sorry but once we got the tickets, it was... difficult," Harry said with a smile, hoping that they wouldn't ask _who_ got the tickets because it sure as hell wasn't Xander. (In his defence for the off timing, it was the last weak before Christmas that they offered a discount.)

He had planned the trip like he planned everything else. He had spent an entire day, searching the internet, journals and social media to find a decent Hotel, evaluating pros and cons, taking notes.

He had finally settled on a place behind the rue de Rivoli. It said, "clean, friendly and very romantic" so he booked an executive double room. He had pictured himself tangled up with Xander between the sheets, staring at the night and stars as they were cuddled up, a perfect romantic trip.

At the age of twenty-four, he had never been away on a weekend with a partner. (Of course, if you didn't count the time he went out with Sarah when he was seventeen and they spent a night in his dad's Jeep because they had forgotten to book a bloody hotel.) (She broke up with him a weak later when he finally admitted that he was probably gay.)

His sister, Gemma, often took a great deal of fancy in telling everyone that he was "the quiet" one, that he "was not the adventurous type" and that he'd rather "stay in" while Gem went off wild and loud and lousy.

Even by being the younger one, he was always the reliable one. The one you could count on to water your flowers and feed your pet when you are away. The one who could be trusted to look after you kids and not seduce your husband into turning gay for him.

 _No,_ this time he thought as he tucked his tickets neatly in his wallet, _I am the one who goes to Paris for the weekend with his boyfriend._

"I'm well jell," said Nick, who hated Xander a bit less than Niall did, and patted him on the shoulder. Harry gave him an appreciating smile.

———

Harry gets on the train, settling himself in as he wonders how "jell" Nick would be if he could see him now: a boy beside an empty seat going to Paris with no idea if his boyfriend was going to show up at all.

———

The Gare de Nord in Paris is packed. People of every nationality, colour and religion are going around in circles as if they are hens being chased away by a wolf. He looks around in the hopes of finding a familiar face even though he knows he won't.

Sighing, he starts to look around for someone who knows how to speak English. Looking around, he locates a _Taxis_ sign and hurries towards it, hoping he can find a taxi and get the hell out of the crowd that was causing him a bloody headache.

"Um, sorry, sir, can you help me?" he asks the first driver he sees. A short man with the remains of a faint facial hair on his face. The man looks up at the taller man—being Harry—and furrowed his eyebrows, saying things rapidly in French.

Harry lets out a whining voice, knowing he wouldn't get anything out of him. "I am sorry, I don't know how to speak French. I am terribly, terribly sorry," he says but the man doesn't stop talking and swinging his hands around in the air. He inches away from him, wanting to find someone else to help him out.

"Sorry sir," he literally jumps on the next driver he sees. "Can you please help me to get to the Hotel Bonne Villie?" The man frowns at him. "Um... _s'il vous plait._ " (translation: if you please)

The man looks at him as if he can't understand a word he says. Of course, he can't. He can't fucking speak French. "I need to get to this Hotel," he tries again, showing him the brochure. The driver takes the paper from him and sees, his face lighting up.

"Uh! The Hotel Bonne Villie?" he says in perfect French (of-bloody-course, he is French, for God's sake, Styles.) and Harry nods rapidly. He thrusts the paper back at Harry, putting his luggage in as fast as he can and Harry gets in the back seat, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The journey takes nearly twenty minutes through the traffic and busy streets of the City of the Light and Harry uses that time to regain his mental stability (that is if any of it is actually left).

He places his arms on the corner of the window, putting his chin on his palm and stares to the outer world. If Xander were there, he'd probably start off talking about the adventures he had had in the different parts of the world.

" _Babe, you have no idea. I was stuck at the top of a fucking elevator with twelve other people and it was hanging out in the air as if it was going to fall any minute. I swear to God that everyone had shit their pants but honest to Lord, I was laughing my arse off. I was like,_ we either die or don't. Chill, lads. _And everyone was totally taken off. Telling you, babe, one of the good ones."_

Sometimes Harry wondered what made someone like Xander, Xander with endless experience and a rock-solid jawline, wants to be with _him_. He was pretty plain at the best and Xander was... Xander.

He had once answered his question with, "You are chill to be with, you know. Like everyone else is always like this in my ear," —he had made a yapping motion with his hand— "and you are... well, relaxing."

He wondered if that made Harry sound like a piece of furniture but he had decided to let it go back then _—relaxing_ was good enough. It was probably best not to go in with hard questions.

 _Paris,_ he reminds himself.

He lowers the window, taking everything in. the sounds, smell, everything there is different from London. Everywhere is bright, everything having a kind of charm to it like you are walking inside a romantic novel.

He takes a deep breath, trying to relish the stress of the day and he finally thinks, _it's going to be okay. Maybe it's for the best to have a few hours before Xander shows up. That way, I can rest, avoid him seeing me like this._

He looks around and for the first time in a few hours, he feels like it is going to be okay. It's _Paris_ after all.

———

_It's not going to be okay,_ he thinks as he stands in front of a small building with elephant grey outer walls with an angry driver chattering non-stop.

"But the guide said that the trip will be twenty euros," he pleads with the angry man but he shoves the money in his face, demanding more. He runs his hand through his brown locks before taking another ten euro bill and giving it to the driver who gets into his car angrily and drives away quickly.

He finally turns to look at the Hotel.

He lets out a sigh, placing his bag next to his long feet.

_And welcome to Paris._

Harry walks in and finds himself in a narrow lobby infused with scents of beeswax and something else that he decides in indefinably French. The walls are panelled wood, shining under the light, and the door handles are brass. He is already wondering what Xander will think. _Not bad,_ he will say, nodding, _Not bad, babe._

"Hello?" he says nervous, and then, because he has no idea how to say it in French. "Um, _Parlez Anglais_? I have booked a room." his voice is raw, he clears it, putting on an awkward smile.

Seconds later a receptionist's head pops up from under a table. She is in her forties, with short, well-cut black hair and a pair of thin lips curved in a warm smile. Harry feels a bit more at ease. "You said you have a booking?" she asks as she leans forward and examines the bot of paper.

"Yes," Harry says, clearing his voice again. "I booked the room two weeks ago. Look, you can see in my print out." _A simple 'yes' was efficient enough,_ he snaps at himself but he can't help the words rushing out of his mouth.

"It's quite alright, sir," the receptionist assures him, typing something on the screen in front of her as Harry nods awkwardly, shifting from one leg to another. He wonders what Xander would think if he saw him like this. He'd probably laugh, take it all in his stride. _Chill, babe,_ he can hear him say. His ability to laugh is one of the things he finds attractive about him. _It's fine, we'll laugh about it later_ , he reassures himself as the receptionist hands him a key.

"Here you go, monsieur," she says with a French accent which makes Harry smile. _Yeah, that's right! I am in Paris!!_ He thinks happily, still not used to the tune of it in his head. "Have a nice stay. Do you have a guest joining you?"

"Thanks," he says with a smile. "And, yes, actually. He will be here in a few hours if not less. His name is Xander? Xander Ritz."

"Yes, monsieur. Will keep an eye out for a Xander," she reassures him and before he can say something, she is back to her paperwork. Harry smiles awkwardly before gathering his things up and walking towards a tiny lift up to the third floor. The door of his room opens onto an attic room with two beds. It's small but Harry puts on a happy smile as he sits at the end of the bed, texting Xander to check-in.

**I am here, waiting for you! Can u let me know whether you'll make it in time for supper? Am starving!**

It's already eight o'clock.

He doesn't respond. Harry assumes he is in the Channel tunnel. If he is, he'll be there at least an hour and a half later. He wonders if he can last that long before eating anything.

He leans back on the table, moaning with pleasure as his sore back finally stretches out and the tension of the few past hours leave his body. He is slowly opening up to the prospect of actually being able to have a fun weekend in Paris—of actually enjoying it all.

He stands up to change when his phone beeps. He jumps on it, opening the text Xander has sent and he freezes.

**Sorry, babe. Not going to get there. Have a great trip x**

**———**

Zayn sits on the rooftop, pulls his wool hat farther down over his eyes and lights another cigarette. It's the spot he always used to smoke when there was a chance that Gigi would come home unexpectedly. She didn't like the smell and if he smoked inside, she used to screw up her nose and say that he smelled disgusting.

The rooftop is a narrow ledge but big enough for a fairly tall man, a mug of coffee and a 300-page sketch notebook. He used to take naps here on summer days, waving to old couples wandering the city hand-in-hand and the teenage twins who sat across his on the roof of their own house to smoke weed in the solitary, without their parents.

Central Paris is full of such spaces. If you don't have a garden or a proper balcony, you find your outside space where you can.

Zayn picks up his pencil, rapidly tapping against the white paper in front of him, trying to come up with an idea, pictures to make alive. When nothing comes to his head—blank as ever—, he flips through the other pages. Every time he goes through his paintings, he sees more faults.

The paintings are dead, their thoughts empty, their features flat as if they are drawn by a fifth-grader. No emotional breakdowns for the observant, no floating glow. Each time he goes through them, the more he is convinced that he cannot show his notebook to anyone.

It's not ready.

Louis, his best friend, says he just has to get a move on, show it to some agent and have them buy the paintings at whatever rate and move on to bigger projects.

Gigi said that he didn't want to hand it over because until he did, he could still tell himself that he had hope. It was one of the less cruel things she'd said.

He looks at his watch, knowing that it's only an hour before he has to start his shift and he better get going. Then, he hears his mobile chiming from inside— _shoot_ , he curses himself for forgetting to tuck it into his pocket before coming out.

He balances his mug on the sketches, to stop them from blowing away, and turns to clamber back in through the window.

The next few seconds pass in slow-motion as his right foot slips on the table that he uses for getting back in and his left foot shoots backwards to keep himself from falling and his foot—his big, clumsy foot as Gigi used to call it—kicks the mug and the pages off the ledge.

He turns in time to hear the mug smashing and to watch almost three hundred carefully painted and edited white sheets flying into the darkening skies.

He watches as his pages catch the wind, and like white doves, float into the streets of Paris.

———

Harry has spent an hour lying on the bed with his eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. Xander is not coming. He still can't work out what to do. He has actually bought Xander a bloody ticket, booked a room and come all the way to Paris to be stood up by his _boyfriend_ , Xander.

And the Oscar of the idiot of the year goes to Harry Edwards Styles for how he performs in life.

For the first ten minutes, he had stared at his last text—the cheery "Have a great trip"—and waited for more. But there is no more. He peers at the phone, flicking the screen on and off to make sure that he isn't missing anything but the text stares at him, mocking him all along.

**Have a great trip x**

He realizes that some part of him has always known this would happen. He knows. He probably knew it last night when he didn't respond to his call. He might have even known it last week when all his plans were confronted with "Yeah, whatever" or "I don't know".

He always knew what kind of boyfriend Xander was—he would often disappear for so long without telling Harry where he was and quite frankly, he hadn't even invited Harry to Paris.

They were having a talk about places that they had been and Harry had admitted that he had never been to Paris and Xander had said, "Really? Oh, Paris is awesome. You'd love it!" and the rest of the conversation had carried on.

Two days later he had received a bonus at work—Harry worked as a journalist, editor—for editing a very well-loved piece of article. While eating his usual dinner—Salmon sandwich with cheese—he had caught a piece of a going-on conversation.

"What the heck. You got a bonus this week, right? Let's push the boat out." Jeff had said to Luke.

"Oh, man, I am going to spend mine on a trip to Barcelona. My wife and I have been planning this since forever," Luke had responded with a teeth-showing grin.

"Mate, Harry got one, too, right?" Jeff had said with a glance towards Harry.

"Dunno," Luke had shrugged. "What difference does that make anyway? He'll probably put it in a savings account. Anyways, do you think I should..." Harry hadn't listened to the rest of their conversation. He had even thrown half of his sandwich because he didn't have any appetite left.

It had tasted oddly gummy in his mouth.

That night, he went to Gemma's after ages. He liked to believe it was simply because he missed his older sister but he knew there was more to it. He wanted Gemma to provoke him. Maybe.

"Harry," she had greeted him, not even trying to hide her surprise. "Long time no see, little one." Harry had growled at the use of the nickname as he had let himself in and Gemma had rattled off to talk about some random girl who had been murdered by her boyfriend and how he should take care of himself. Xander could be an axe murderer for all it's worth.

 _Yeah, right,_ he had thought scornfully, dozing in and out of the conversation. Finally when Gemma had stopped talking, he had suddenly asked, "Gem, you have gone to Paris, right?"

Gemma had thrown him a sceptical glance. "Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, just... wondering, I guess," he had said and the look Gemma had given him showed that she hadn't believed him one bit. He shouldn't have dragged the conversation—he should've stayed silent but the judging look, the oh-Harry-i-am-so-sorry-that-you-haven't-seen-Paris look, the you-will-never-see-Paris look on Gemma's face had provoked him. "Actually, Xander told me that he'd like to take me there, so I was just wondering."

" _Xander?_ " she had exploded. "Your good-for-nothing boyfriend Xander?"

"Hey," Harry had protested. "Yes, my _boyfriend_ Xander." And God, the look on Gemma's face was worth buying two tickets to Paris, booking a hotel and planning a whole weekend.

Now that he is alone in his hotel room, looking at the ceiling and feeling like an idiot, he doesn't think it was worth anything after all.

Xander had been slightly drunk when Harry had told him. "Woah, babe," he had said when Harry said that he had bought them tickets for Paris. "You bought me a ticket to Paris?"

"Us," Harry had simply said. "A weekend in Paris. I thought it would be... you know... fun. We should, like, go crazy!"

"Wow, yeah, okay, sure, babe. Why not? Nice one." Xander had said before moving on to more drinks until he passed out.

Now, he would have to go back to England and tell Niall and Nick that they were right. That Xander was exactly who they said he was. That he'd been a fool and wasted his money. He had blown up their annual trip to Brighton for nothing.

Harry screws his eyes shut hard and long so he can make sure that he isn't going to cry. When he is certain he has no tears to shed, he glances at his suitcase. He wonders where he can find a taxi and whether he can change his ticket. He can go down and ask the receptionist to call Eurostar for him and check if he can change his ticket but he doesn't.

He has no idea what to do and Paris suddenly feels huge and unknown and unfriendly and a million miles away from home.

His phone beeps again and he jumps right on it. _Xander is coming after all! It will be alright_! But it's Niall.

**Having fun, you filthy mare?**

He blinks, finding himself at the edge of crying. "Nope, not gonna happen," he warns the tears that are ready to be shed. He wishes he was in Niall's hotel room in Brighton now, eating a pack of pop-corn while Niall was going crazy about one thing or another. Closing his eyes, he can almost feel like he is there and he feels even more miserable.

He thinks, briefly, that he has never felt more alone in his life.

**All great, thanks. Have fun!**

He texts back, immediately turning his phone off to avoid telling any more lies.

———

Harry examines the Eurostar timetables. It's almost nine and even if he makes it to the train station in one piece, there's no way he can get a train back to England early enough. He has to stay the night.

So he stands up, walking towards the bathroom. In the harsh light of the bathroom, he looks exhausted. His green eyes are almost red from all the unshed tears and his curls look greasy and form-less. He looks exactly like a boy who has traveled all the way to Paris just to be stood up by his boyfriend.

He splashes water on his face, taking long and shaky breaths and tries to think clearly.

He will find something to eat, sleep and then, he'll feel better. Tomorrow, he will catch the early train home so he can drown in self-pity back in his own room. He knows it's not what he'd hoped but it's still a plan and having a plan is better than having nothing.

He changes into a loose green sweater and another pair of skinny black jeans before going out of the room, locking the door and heading downstairs. He tries to look cool and carefree—like a man who often finds himself alone in unfamiliar places.

"Um, sorry, do you have a room service menu? I couldn't find one in the room," he asks the receptionist.

"Room service? Monsieur, you are in the gastronomic capital of the world. We do not do room service here."

"Okay, well, then do you know anywhere nice I could get a bite to eat?"

"You want a restaurant?"

He growls inwardly. _No, I am in the habit of getting my food from a bloody roller-coaster. Of course, I want a restaurant!_ But he bites his tongue and simply nods. "Or a cafe. Anything. Just somewhere I could walk to."

The receptionist nods, thinking. "There is Cafe des Bastides," she says, handing over a small tourist map. "You turn left outside and it's two streets down on the right. It's a very nice place to um,"—she pauses— "eat alone."

"Thank you," Harry says, shifting awkwardly. "And um, the person I told you... Xander Ritz, he won't be joining me,"—coughs awkwardly— "a family urgency, so, I don't think anyone would, you know, want to go to my room."

She looks at him and Harry can literally hear her thinking, _so your boyfriend never turned up, mousy English boy? That's no surprise._ Instead, she nods. "I will call Louis and make sure he has a table for you. Name?"

"Harry."

"Harry," she repeats it, pronouncing it like it's an affliction. _Haqi_... His cheeks flame. He grabs the map, mutters a thank you and walks briskly from the hotel lobby.

———

The cafe is busy, the tiny round tables outside have couples or groups sitting shoulder to shoulder in thick coats, smoking, drinking and chatting as they look over the busy street. Harry hesitates and glances up at the billboard, wondering if he can really face sitting there alone. Perhaps he could just nip into a supermarket and buy a sandwich. Yes, that would be the safer option.

Before he can turn around and leave and pretend like he has never even come close to the cafe, a voice stops him. "You are the Englishman? Yes?" the man who calls out is fairly short with blue eyes and skinny figure. His voice booms out over the tables and Harry flinches. "You are Harry? Table for one?"

A handful of heads swivel to look at him. He ponders whether it's possible to die spontaneously from embarrassment. "Um, yes," he mutters into his chest. The man gestures him inside and finds him a small table and chair in the corner by the window and he slides in.

There is a steamy fug on the inside of the windows and around him the inside tables hum with well-dressed women in their fifties, exclaiming in words he doesn't understand, young couples gazing at each other over glasses of wine and even two girls kissing each other in the back of the place.

He feels miserable as if he is wearing a sign that says _Pity Me._ _I have nobody to eat with and my boyfriend dumped me in a foreign county!_

He shakes his head, glancing at the menu. He repeats the words in his head, trying to get the right pronunciation before he speaks them out loud.

" _Bonsoir,_ " the waiter drags him out of his struggles and he looks up to see a raven-haired young man with the tip of his hair coloured green. His golden eyes are looking at Harry's green eyes and for a second, Harry feels like Jesus has dawned on him from the above. He looks like a God—there is no denying that. The waiter—God-like, sexy waiter—puts a jug of water in front of him. " _Qu'est-ce—_ "

" _Je voudrais le steak frites, s'il vous plait,_ " Harry says in a rush. The meal—steak and chips—is expensive but it is also the only thing he thinks he can pronounce. (Translation: I would like the steak and fries, please.)

The waiter smiles as if he knows the struggle he has to go through and gives him a small nod. "The steak? And to drink, Monsieur?" _He is not French,_ is the first thing Harry notices. He has a thick Yorkshire accent. "Some wine?" he asks and Harry snaps back to reality.

He was going to have coke but he whispers, "Yes, please."

" _Bon_ ," he says before he goes back. In minutes, he is back with a basket of bread and a jug of wine. He puts them down as if it's absolutely normal for a man to be sitting there alone on a Friday evening by himself. Before Harry can say anything, he is gone.

The wine is good—he takes a sip and feels the tension of the day starting to ooze away. He has another sip and then the steak arrives—he can't help but notice the fact that the one bringing it is _not_ the handsome man. The food is good. The chips are crisp and golden and hot and the green salad is delicious.

He eats it all, surprising himself with his appetite since he didn't think he would be able to eat despite everything that has happened. The waiter—the handsome, Godly man—smiles at his evident pleasure when he returns and the smile feels like sunshine.

It's as if he is noticing Harry for the first time. Harry allows himself to cosy up to the smile. He needs it after everything that has happened that day. "Is good, huh?" he pronounces good like _gud_ which makes Harry crack a smile. It feels good to be around some northern accent in France.

"Delicious," he says. "Thank you." He nods and refills Harry's glass. Harry feels a brief, unlikely moment of pleasure but as he reaches for the glass, he somehow misjudges and knocks half a glass of wine onto the waiter's apron and shoes. He peers over the table, at the deep red stain.

"Shit," he curses as he jumps up and knocks the chair. "Fuck, erm—" He is clearly frustrated with himself and disappearation of the waiter's smile isn't helping him at all. "I'm so sorry!" his hands fly to pull on his curls.

The waiter looks unentertained as he throws daggers at him as he sighs wearily. Harry can swear that he wants to kill him right that second but instead, the handsome man mops at himself with a piece of cloth and reaches for the chair, fixing its position.

"I am really sorry," Harry repeats, his voice high-pitched.

"It's of no matter," the waiter growls.

"But, I really am—"

"Really, it's okay," he cuts him off as he runs a hand into his mop of hair—green and black strands of hair tangled in between his fingers. "It has been this kind of day, it's okay." he tries to give Harry a vague smile but Harry can see right through it but before he can fuss more, he disappears.

Harry feels his cheeks redden. He looks up at the clock; nine forty-five. _Only about 39600 more ruddy seconds,_ he thinks, _and then I can get back on the train and pretend this trip never happened._

———

At the cafe Zayn sits by the kitchen hatch, watching as Louis scrubs at the huge steel puns with Liam working silently beside him. He looks down at his large coffee as his shoulders slump. The clock says a quarter to one but his mind screams the end of the world.

"You'll draw a better one, I promise," says Louis for the hundredth time and Zayn growls.

"I put everything I had into those pages and now it's all gone."

"Come on, you still have a few pages left," Louis says and Zayn sneers scornfully. "Mate, cheer up. You are still a painter. You should have more than one sketch in your head."

"Yeah, I had _three hundred_ and all of it is gone," Zayn snickers, rolling eyes. Louis gives up on the scrubber with a sigh as he walks towards Zayn and leaves Liam to do the rest by himself.

Zayn has found almost fifty pages of the 300-plus that had blown away. Some of them are blurred with rain and water and others are stamped with footprints. Others have disappeared into Paris evening.

"I am such a fool, Louis," he whines. "Gigi told me so many times not to take my work out on the roof but being the idiot I am—"

"Oh, no," Louis cuts him off. "Please not another Gigi story. I mean it. I need some brandy if we are going to have a Gigi story."

"But you drank all the brandy already," Liam remarks from the other side.

"My point, exactly," Louis remarks. "Are you listening to this highly secretive conversation?" Liam only growls in answer. Louis turns to Zayn. "See, here's the motto; Try again, Fail again, Fail better."

"But those sketches—"

"When did you become so thick, Zee?" Louis growls, interrupting him. "I am not talking about the book. You need to get out there. Meet some woman, or man—see if I care. Drink a little, dance a little... Find material for new sketches!"

"I would buy those paintings. Inspired by sex and liquor," Liam says in French.

"There," Louis cheers. "Liam will buy your paintings. And he only ever buys pornography."

"I don't read the words," he growls.

"We know that, Liam. Again, my point, exactly," Louis snarks, turning to Zayn. "See?"

"I don't know, I am not really in the mood," Zayn says.

"Then put yourself in the mood!" Louis is like a radiator, always making you feel warmer. "At least you have a reason to get out of your apartment now, eh? Go and live. Think about something else." Zayn shrugs but Louis isn't giving up as he is opening his apron. "Okay. Rene is working his shift tomorrow night, yeah? So you and me and Liam, out for some beers. What do you say?"

"I don't know..."

"Bullshit," he hisses. "What else are you gonna do? Spend the night in your gloomy apartment waiting for Gigi to fall back in love with you? That is if she was _ever_ in love with you in the first place."

"You are not making things sound any better, Lou."

"I am! I am your friend! I am giving you a million reasons to go out with me and no, not like _that_ since I don't swing _that_ way but still... Come on, we'll have some laughs, pick up someone. Get arrested!"

Zayn finishes his coffee and hands the cup to Louis just to have him put it in the sink.

"Maybe," Zayn dismisses. "I'll think about it."

Louis shakes his head as Zayn salutes them and leaves.

———

It is the knock that wakes Harry up. It comes to him at first from a distance, then grows louder. "Housekeeping," a voice says and he feels himself completely detached from the world of dreams and sits with a growl. There's a faint ringing in his ears and his mouth feels dry.

He walks to the door—needless to say, with a great deal of struggle—and opens it as he rubs his eyes. "Hello?" his voice is deeper than usual and much huskier. No surprise the small woman on the other side of the door jumps up.

" _Ah. Je reviendrai._ " she says and fixes her exposure, waiting for Harry to say something but he has no idea what she has just said. He simply nods and lets the door close. When there's no further knocks on the door, he relaxes. Now he can shower in peace and— (Translation: I'll be back.)

 _Holy shit,_ he interrupts his own thoughts as he glances at the clock. It's a quarter past eleven.

It can't be!

He flicks on the television, skipping through until he hits a news channel. It really is a quarter past eleven.

Suddenly awake, he starts to gather up his things. He is still in last night's clothes. After he came back to the hotel the previous night—with shame and embarrassment—he was too tired to change. He dumps everything into the suitcase and changes into a shirt and jeans with his jacket and grabs his keys and ticket before running downstairs.

The Frenchwoman is behind the desk, as immaculate as she had been last night. Harry wishes he had stopped to brush his hair.

"Good morning, monsieur."

"Good morning," he clears his voice. At least he sounds better than minutes ago. Less intimidating. "I wondered if you could... um... Well, I need to change my Eurostar ticket."

"You would like me to call Eurostar?"

"Please. I need to get home today. A... work emergency—clients and all."

The woman's face doesn't flicker. "Of course," she says nonchalantly and Harry imagines her thinking _This Englishman is truly an idiot._ She takes the tickets and dials, then speaks in rapid French.

Harry leans on the counter as his fingers run through his hair, trying to disentangle his curls.

"They have nothing until five o'clock. Will this suit you?"

"Nothing at all?" he suddenly feels hopeless.

"There were empty spaces in early trains this morning but nothing until five for now."

"It's okay," he says more to himself than the woman.

"And you have to buy a new ticket," she adds and Harry's head jerks up. He stares at the ticket, which the woman is holding towards him. There, in black and white: Non-Transferable.

"A new ticket?" he whines and he struggles not to bang his head as hard as he can. "How much will that be?"

"One hundred and ninety-three euros. You want to book it?" _More than one hundred and fifty pounds,_ he calculates quickly and this time, really bangs his forehead with his palm. He dares not to look at the woman as he takes his ticket back from her.

"Um, you know what, I... I just have to work something out." Of course a cheap ticket would be non-transferable. "Thank you so much," he mumbles and bolts for the safety of his room, ignoring the woman who is calling after him.

He sits on one end of the bed and swears softly at to himself. So he can either waste half a week's pay on an already wasted weekend and go home and whine in his room or he can carry on with World's Worst Romantic Weekend alone for another night. He can hide away in his room and sit by himself in the cafes, trying not to look at the happy couples.

_Bloody joy._

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he curses and decides that he hates Paris. A piece of paper is visible from the corner of his suitcase and he knows what it is for. A ticket for an art gallery. He thought showing some art to Xander would be a good idea so he bought it to surprise him.

Now it is humiliating him. "Fuck off," he mutters at the piece of paper as he shoves the two tickets in his jacket. For now, he needs to brush his hair and change his bandanna. And then, get a very strong coffee.

———

The daylight makes Harry feel better. When the natural warmth of the sun slowly tells him that maybe everything will be alright. He walks until he sees a cosy cafe and warms up to the table as he waits for his order—croissants and coffee.

The waitress comes back minutes later with the order and puts it in front of his with a smile. "Here you go, monsieur," she says with a smile which Harry returns.

"Thank you," he says and empties his pocket so he can seat more comfortably. Skinny jeans' pockets aren't the best place to keep things.

"Oh these tickets," she exclaims and Harry frowns, following her line of sight. They are fixed on the tickets Harry had bought. "You know, people are queuing for many hours to see it. This is a very popular show."

"They are?" Harry asks, looking at them. "Really?"

"Yes, everyone is going. I always wanted to go, you know," she says with a wink but Harry ignores her.

"I wasn't really planning on going," he says, now sounding doubtful.

"Oh, you totally should," she says with a thick French accent. "It's a really good show, I told you." she rambles on but Harry ignores her, staring at the tickets. After a while, she says, "Enjoy." and disappears.

"Thank you," Harry says with a smile and goes back to his coffee but he is still thinking about the tickets. Why shouldn't he go anyways? It wasn't like Xander had bought it for him. He had bought it with his own money and he deserves to use it and not waste his money.

When the waitress comes out to collect, she points at the tickets again. "If I were you, I'd certainly go, monsieur. Many want to have it—and you do. Use it."

"Yeah, maybe I did," Harry says with a smile. "Thank you."

———

Zayn sits on his rooftop in his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, thinking, his empty coffee cup beside him. He looks at the little photograph of Gigi that he had been holding in his hand. And then, when the air is too cold for him to stay out any longer, he climbs back in and gazes around his apartment.

She was right—it is a mess.

So he grabs a bin bag and begins to tidy. An hour later, the little flat is at least partially tolerable; the laundry is done, the old newspapers are in the recycle bag by the door, the dirty dishes are done. Everything is in order.

He is washed, his soft beard is tidied and his clothes are changed. Nothing stops him from drawing now but still, he just isn't in the mood. He stares out in the city, glances at his watch, looks out again and grabs his jacket.

———

"Hey, mate," Louis greets Zayn when he drops by the cafe. "Are you working today? Thought you were off."

"I am," Zayn declared. "Just came to say, I'm gonna come out, you know, with you, so text me the details."

"You could've texted me that," Louis remarks unimpressed. "What is going on?"

"Eh, nothing," Zayn says with a cheeky grin. "Just wanted to say that I might swing by that art show, you know, the one everyone goes to—the Kahlo exhibition. So if you needed me—"

"In case you see Gigi there," Louis interrupts him with a dry tune and Zayn gives him a hurt look. Yes, maybe he was doing it for that but it was no excuse for Louis to throw it in his face.

"No, I genuinely like Frida Kahlo," Zayn shakes his head.

"Sure you do," deadpans Louis, gazing at his brown eyes with his smug face. "You rarely talk of anything else."

"Look, Lou," Zayn sighs. "She said I never do anything with my life. I just... want to show her. I can do culture. I can change. And oh, I tidied my apartment!"

There is a short silence as Louis slaps at his pockets as if searching for something. Zayn frowns with confusion. "Oh, I was trying to find you a medal," Louis says sassily.

"Bugger off," he hisses but a smile makes its way to his lips. "I'll see you tonight, yeah?"

Louis nods and Zayn turns to go but he stops him before he can. "Lad," he says as Zayn opens the door. "Let her go. Don't take it all so seriously, eh?" Zayn nods as he forces a smile.

———

Gigi always said he got up late. Now, standing near the end of a queue that is marked with signs saying _one hour from here, two hours from this point_ , Zayn kicks himself for not showing up earlier as he had originally planned. He just _had_ to drop by the cafe, didn't he?

He had joined the end forty-five minutes earlier cheerfully, thinking the line of people will soon move out of the way. But that didn't happen. (what else did he expect from his shitty luck?)

He pulls his beanie down and tucks his jacket collar higher. He could just quit—go home and draw something if he was lucky. He could check his motorcycle and change the oil. He could do the paperwork he'd been putting off for months. But nobody else has ducked out of the queue and neither does he.

Somehow, he thinks he might feel better if he stays. He will have achieved something today. He will not have given up, like Gigi says he does all the time.

It is, of course, nothing to do with the fact that Frida Kahlo is Gigi's favourite artist. He pictures himself bumping into her at the bar. "Oh yes," he would say casually. "I just went to see the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo exhibition." she would look surprised, impressed maybe even.

Even as he thinks about it, he knows it is a stupid idea. Gigi is not going to be anywhere around the bar where he works. She has avoided it since they broke up.

He looks up to see a boy—young, confused, tall boy—walking towards the end of the line. His face wears the look of dismay he sees on everyone else's when they see how long the queue is.

He stops near a woman a few people down from him. "Excuse me?" he says with a British accent and Zayn can't help but miss England a tad as he hears the familiar accent. "Do you speak English?" he struggles, showing the woman two sheets of paper. "Is this queue for the Kahlo exhibition?"

The woman shrugs and says something in Spanish. Zayn can see that the boy is clearly startled as if thinking, _not even French_ — _she is freaking Spanish!_

"You have tickets, though," Zayn speaks up and he clearly sees the boy's expression easing as he hears a familiar language. "You don't have to wait in the queue here. If you have the tickets, the queue is there." he points at the end of a much shorter line.

The Englishman follows his finger and smiles. "Oh, thanks! That's a relief!" he has a slight blush on his cheeks.

And then, Zayn recognizes him. "You were at Cafe des Dastides last night, weren't you?"

He looks a bit startled. Then his hands go to his neck, rubbing the back of his neck. "Eh, I kinda was hoping you wouldn't recognize me," he says embarrassed. "I am so sorry that I spilled wine all over you."

"Oh, it's nothing," Zayn assures him with a smile.

He smiles too. "Yeah, but I'm still sorry and... um, thanks." he turns to go and Zayn goes back to staring at his foot when he stops and turns around and says, "Well, do you want a ticket?"

"What?" Zayn asks, not sure if he has heard right.

"I have a spare ticket and I was wondering if you wanted one. You know, as an apology gift or something," he explains, blushing slightly and Zayn smiles.

"Are you sure? I mean don't you need the ticket?"

Now, he looks fully red. "N... no. it was um a gift and I don't need the other one so you can have it." he stretches out his hand to give the ticket away. Zayn glances at the long line and decides to accept it.

"Thanks," he says with a grin and the boy nods and they both walk up to the shorter line.

"It's the least I can do."

Zayn can't stop grinning as they stand in the short queue at this unexpected turn of events. The boy's gaze slides towards Zayn and he smiles. Zayn notices that his ears have gone pink.

"So," Zayn starts, feeling awkward as they stand silently. "You are here for a holiday?"

"Just the weekend," he clarifies. "Um, just, you know, fancied a trip."

Zayn nods. "I guess it's good to just go... sometimes, anyways. Very impulsive, huh?"

He shakes his head. "Not really. But it's not important. I am here anyways. You... work in the restaurant every day?"

"Most days," Zayn says, feeling himself getting flushed. "But I want to be a painter," he blurts out. _Shoot_ , he thinks. "But I think I'll always be a waiter." why can't he shut up?

"Oh no," his voice is lively and firm. "I am sure you'll get there. You have all that going on in front of you. You know, people's lives. I mean, in the restaurant. You must have many ideas—full of new sketches and stuff. I am certain."

Zayn shrugs. "It's a dream anyway. For now, at least."

And then, they are at the front and the security guy checks them up before allowing them to enter the room. Zayn isn't sure what is going to happen next. Should they walk together or...

"Well," the boy says, deciding their next move as he raises his hand in goodbye. "I hope you enjoy the exhibition."

Zayn pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and nods. "Goodbye."

He has pale skin and green eyes and very curly hair. He wonders if his curls are soft. He smiles—only to reveal his dimples—as if he is predisposed to see jokes where other people might not. Zayn realizes he doesn't even know his name but before he can ask, he heads down the stairs and disappears into the crowd.

For months, Zayn has been stuck in a groove, unable to think of anything but Gigi. Every bar he has been reminding him of somewhere they've been. Every song reminds him of her, of her shape, her lips, her face. It has been like living with a ghost.

But now, inside the gallery, something happens to him. He finds himself gripped by the paintings—the colourful canvas, the self-portraits, nature and the people.

He stops before a prefect little painting in which she—Frida—has pictured her spine as a cracked column. There's something about the grief in her eyes that doesn't allow him to look away. _That is suffering,_ he thinks. He thinks about how he's been moping about Gigi and it makes him embarrassed. Their love story (if it can even be called one), he suspects, is nothing nearly as epic as Frida's.

He finds himself coming back again and again to stand in front of the same pictures, reading about the couple's life and the history behind each painting. He allows himself to wonder if he can ever be half as good as them.

He feels an appetite growing within himself for something bigger, better, more meaningful. He wants to live like these people. He has to make his painting better, to keep going.

He has to.

He is filled with the urge to go home and paint something that is fresh and new and has in it the honesty of these pictures. Most of all, he just wants to paint.

But what?

And then he sees _him_ , standing in front of the girl with the broken column for a spine, his eyes locked on the girl in the painting, his eyes wide and sad.

His bandana is clutched in his hands. As he watches him, a tear slides down the boy's cheek. His left hand lifts and—still gazing at the picture—he wipes it away with his palm. Merely seconds later—as if he can sense Zayn's gaze on him—he looks over suddenly and their eyes meet.

His glassy eyes are a special shade of green—emerald or fresh leaves, he can't decide. Almost before Zayn knows what he is doing, he steps forwards.

"I never... got a chance to ask you," he says and the English boy cocks an eyebrow. "Would you like to go for a coffee?"

———

The cafe Zayn takes him is packed at four o'clock but the waitress still manages to find a place for Zayn. Harry has a feeling that he is one of those men who always get a good spot. Zayn orders black coffee and Harry says, "For me, too." because he doesn't want Zayn to hear his terrible French accent.

"Just for your information," Harry says as he cradles his cup of coffee. "I don't normally cry at the pictures." He is embarrassed from their earlier encounter.

"In all honesty, I wish you did," Zayn says playfully. "I found it really moving, not going to lie." Harry finds himself blushing but smirks nonetheless. And Zayn starts talking about the exhibition—the people, the pictures, the technique and Harry finds himself fascinated by the enthusiasm this boy is showing.

"You know," Zayn says with a smile and it drags Harry back to reality. "I felt it all here." His palm rests on his chest. "You know what I mean? So powerful!"

"Yeah," Harry replies fondly with a nod. He really does understand. He could feel surrounded by _real life_ as he looked at the paintings. It was as if they had left _actual_ piecesof time for people to see. No one he has known talks like Zayn, Harry tells him. "I don't know, we talk about this football game and that shirt and that girl and this boy... I feel kind of ashamed now."

"I mean, we do talk about that stuff, too," Zayn says with a grin. "But you know, those paintings inspired me... like, It's my duty to paint just as powerful now. It's my job to leave behind something as symbolic as they did. I don't even know if that makes sense."

"It does," Harry assures him because it _does_. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't understand a word of it let alone think it makes sense but as the words left Zayn's mouth, Harry could feel himself getting sunk in his aura. "So, you are British as well, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Zayn admits. "I am. How did you understand?"

"Mate, I am English myself—I sure can recognize Yorkshire accent," Harry says with a smile.

"More like Bradford," Zayn shrugs. "Same difference, I know. But yeah, Bradford. You are...?"

"Originally Cheshire," Harry shrugs. "But have lived in London for a couple of years now. Almost adopted their accent, I think."

"Not really," Zayn says with a chuckle and Harry shrugs again with a smile. "I like your accent, you know," he says and a pink shades creeps under his cheeks. Harry finds himself blushing too. "So how do you find the trip, Harry-from-Cheshire? Is this your first trip?"

He does that a lot, blushing. "I like it," Harry says. Not an entire lie—he enjoys what they are doing now. "You know, what I've seen of it so far. I haven't gone to any of the sights like Eiffel and stuff. In all honesty, I don't think I'll have time anyways."

"You'll come back—everyone does," Zayn shrugs and Harry is tempted to ask why he left England and came to live here among strangers. He doesn't though because Zayn asks, "What are you doing this evening?"

"I don't know. Maybe find someplace to eat. Might even flop in the hotel." a pause. "Are you working in the cafe tonight?"

"No, not tonight," Zayn says and Harry tries not to look disappointed. Zayn finishes his coffee and glances at his watch. "Shoot," he curses. "I was supposed to drop by a shop and get some painting stuff." He, then, looks up at Harry. "But I am meeting some friends tonight. You know, to grab a few drinks and all. You are welcome to join us."

"Um..." Harry's voice drifts away. He genuinely likes Zayn but this offer is too much. Maybe he is saying this just to be polite. "You're very kind, but—"

"But what?" His face is cheerful, open. "You can't spend your evening in Paris alone in your hotel room!"

"Really, I'll be fine," Harry says and Gemma's voice plays in his head: _you don't just go out with strange men._ He could be anyone. He is a Parisian artist after all!

"C'mon, Harry, let me buy you a drink, yeah?" he says and Harry wonders if he is actually asking him on a date? Probably not—he doesn't even know him and he doesn't look gay. Not that _Harry_ looks anything that particularly stands out as queer but... he is even rambling in his fucking head. _Shit!_ "Just to thank you for the ticket, yeah?"

"I don't know..."

"Think of it as a Parisian costume, huh?" Zayn says with a smug grin.

"You are English."

"Still living in Paris, aren't I?" He has the most amazing grin. His nose crunches upward when he shows his teeth in a cheerful and genuine smile.

Harry feels himself wobble. "Is it far?"

"No where is far! You are in Paris!" he exclaims, faking a French accent which makes both of them laugh. "I'll pick you up anyway so you don't have to worry about that. Where is your hotel?"

He tells him and says, "So where are we going?"

"Where the night takes us! You are the English boy in Paris as a tourist, after all!" he salutes and then, he is gone with a hand up as if to say goodbye as he kick-starts his moped and roars away down the road.

———

Harry lets himself back into his room, his mind still buzzing from afternoon's events. Before he can think of anything, he decides he needs a shower. When he is out and about, his wet hair dripping, his mind finally starts working.

He just said yes to a man he doesn't know and it wasn't like he asked him to sleep with him but still, it feels strange and scary.

He shouldn't have said yes.

But before the thoughts take over, he goes to his suitcase and sorts through the few clothes he has brought. Xander is not the one to like him in fancy clothes—he prefers him naked—so he finds that he hasn't actually brought many clothes.

And he certainly hasn't brought stylish ones.

It's not like he is going to a red carpet but he isn't sure if baggy sweaters and skinny jeans are typical for an evening in Paris. What was Zayn wearing anyways? Leather jacket, a very sexy shirt and those jeans...

Why would he look so good in skinny jeans and then there was Harry in skinny jeans! Not nearly as good.

He sighs, wishing he had some of those weird arse colthes they show off in Parisian magazines. Rainbow jackets and some random colourful jeans so he could stand out.

He finally settles on a new pair of jeans—dark shade of blue—and a loose green sweater.. He decides to take his denim jacket with him just in case.

He styles his curls, wears his green bandana, sits down on the bed and laughs.

Twenty minutes later, he is still sitting on the bed, staring into space. He is not sure of he wants to go out anymore when he thinks of the whole thing. _He is in Paris, getting ready to go out with an Englishman he picked up in an art gallery._

He must be insane.

This is the stupidest thing he has ever done in his life. This is even stupider than buying a ticket to Paris for a man who had once told him he couldn't decide if his face looked more like a horse or a currant bun.

He will be in a news headline, or worse, in one of those tiny particles that aren't important enough to be a headline.

**ENGLISHMAN FOUND DEAD IN PARIS AFTER BOYFRIEND FAILS TO SHOW UP  
** _"I told him not to go out with strange men," says sister.  
__"Xander was a pain in the arse, I had told him," says his best friend_ **.**

He gazes at himself in the mirror and feels panic taking over. What has he done?

He grabs his keys and slips out of the room as fast as he can and runs to the reception. The woman is still behind the counter. He almost runs to her. "If anyone comes for me, will you tell him that I am not here?"

"You aren't here?" a familiar voice says from behind him and Harry feels his blood run cold. "Isn't this Harry, though?" Zayn just _had_ to be super on-time, didn't he?

The receptionist is forgotten as Harry turns to face the dark-skinned handsome man. "Hey, Zayn," Harry says, feeling flushed. He expects Zayn to be angry or offended but he is just standing there as if he has no worries at all.

"Hello, Harry. Or _are_ you Harry?"

"I am," he admits. "I am sorry."

"Why?"

"You know, I just said that... ugh, you know why."

"Why did you say that, then?" Zayn says with a smile. "Did I scare you away?" And that's when he realizes Zayn is _not_ at ease. He has this sad smile plastered on his face as if he is heartbroken.

"No, what the fuck?" Harry curses and blushes. Why would he say that? When he is anxious, he just starts having a dirty mouth. "I am sorry. I mean, no, it's because, I am not what you think I am—you know, this boy who goes to art galleries and I don't know, is cool and everything. The whole English tourist boy stereotype. And you might be a murderer!" he admits and sighs. "I am sorry."

"Stop apologizing, Harry," Zayn says with a smile which in no longer sad but more like amused. "It's okay."

"But—"

"I am not the most successful person around here, in case you have forgotten," Zayn shrugs. "And I am not a murderer. Well, not yet, anyway."

"You are planning on becoming a murderer?" Harry asks before he can stop himself. Why can't he just shut his mouth?

"Not tonight," Zayn says with a face that shows he is trying so hard not to laugh. "That is if you come out for a drink with me."

"Wow, so if I say no, you are going to become a murderer!" Harry says playfully and this times Zayn fully laughs. His eyes are almost closed, his nose crunched and all of his face is laughing. Harry finds it cute if he is being honest.

"I just might, yes," Zayn says with a smug face as if he is actually considering it.

"Well, then, I might just accept the offer to drinks," Harry says with a smirk. "That is, simply because I want to save lives—avoid you becoming a murderer."

"You'd do me a favour, mate," Zayn says. "Really."

———

The Paris evening is crisp and cold, Harry realizes as wind whooshes through his curls when Zayn speeds up. He has never been on a bike before and he tried not to think about how many people die while riding bikes. "You okay?" Zayn asks through the wind and Harry nods before he realizes that Zayn can't actually turn back and see him nodding.

"I am fine," Harry says loudly and as the bike takes a hit, he holds onto Zayn.

"Good," Zayn says, unfazed by Harry's hands around his waist. "First, we will drink and then maybe we'll eat but first allow me to show you some of Paris, yeah?" and as Harry holds on tighter, his moped leaps forward into the night and Harry lets out a squeal.

Zayn whizzes down the rue de Rivoli, dipping in and out of traffic and is painfully aware of Harry's hands around his waist as they tighten each time he speeds up. "You okay?" he asks for probably the tenth time that day and his voice is muffled from under his helmet.

"Yes!" Harry shrieks which makes Zayn doubt the fact that he is okay but he stays silent and simply goes a bit slower. Harry laughs loudly and Zayn briefly thinks that it's one of _those_ laughs. The kind that stays in your head and helps you remember that life is still beautiful. When he swerves to avoid hitting a car, Harry yells, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my fucking God!"

He takes them down crowded avenues, through back-streets, over Saint-Louis so he can see the river glistening under the moonlight. The ride around the back of Pont de l'Archeveche so she can see the cathedral on Notre-dame lit up the darkness, its gargoyles gazing down with shadowed faces from its Gothic towers.

Then, before Harry can even breathe, they are on the road again, riding along the Champs-Elysees, weaving through the cars, beeping at pedestrians who step out into the road. Zayn hears Harry's careless giggle as an old Lady starts cursing at them in French.

At some point, Zayn Slows down a bit so Harry can see the Arc de Triomphe. He feels him lean back a little as they drive past. He puts his thumb up and Harry puts his own up in response.

Zayn speeds over a bridge and turns along the river. He dodges the buses and taxis and ignores the horns of angry drivers, until he sees the spot he wants. He slows and cuts the engine by the main path.

Then there it is, Eiffel tower soars above them, a million pieces of iron pointing into the infinite sky.

He hears Harry gasp as he releases his grip on his jacket and gets off the bike carefully as if during the journey his legs have become wobbly. He pulls off his helmet and runs his hand through his curls to mess them up even more. Zayn finds himself grinning at the sight but Harry doesn't notice. He is too busy gazing upward, his mouth an O of surprise.

He pulls off his own helmet as well as he leans forward and over the handlebars. "There! Now you can say you have seen all of Paris's wonders in... uh... twenty-two minutes."

He turns and looks at him, his eyes glittering. "That," he says, "was the most bloody terrifying and absolutely best thing I have ever done in my entire fucking life!"

Zayn laughs.

"It's the Eiffel Tower!" Harry exclaims as if he can't believe it. As if everything will vanish if he closes his eyes.

"You want to go up?" Zayn asks with a soft smile. "We will probably have to queue but you know, if you want to..."

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head. "I think we've stood in enough lines today. What I would really like is a stiff drink."

"A what drink?" Zayn fights not to burst into laughter.

"Wine!" Harry excalims and climbs back on the moped. "A glass of wine!" Zayn feels his hands slide around his waist as he starts the engine up and drives back into the night.

———

The Lanes of Brighton are heaving, thick with parties, friends and people. Niall and Nick are walking together in a row, even though it forces people off the pavement, trying to work out the location of the bar that Nick heard does free drinks if you survive three rounds of tequila.

"Oh, shit," says Nick as he reaches into his pockets. "I've forgotten my phone!"

"It's probably safer at the hotel," says Niall. "You'll only get drunk and lose it anyways."

"But what if I meet someone? How will I get their number?"

"You can get them ro write it on your di— Xander?"

"My what?"

"Xander? Xander Ritz?" Niall exclaims, ignoring Nick, as he stares at the disheveled figure hanging out of the Mermaid Arm's bar. He blinks at them.

Niall marches up to him, confused. "What are you...? Aren't you meant to be in Paris?!"

Xander rubs at the top of his head. The amount of alcohol he has consumed makes it hard for him to come up with an excuse. "Oh. that. Yeah. Well, it was kind of tricky getting away from work. So... yeah."

Nick and Niall stare at each other as they register the surroundings.

"Where is Harry, then?" Niall is the first one to react. "Oh my God, Where is Harry?!"

———

Harry is squeezed into the end booth at the Bar Noir, in some part of central Paris; he has long since stopped trying to guess where. There was a mention of food some time ago but it seems to have been forgotten. He is relaxed there with Louis, Liam and that friend of Louis with brunette hair whose name Zayn always forgets.

He has taken off his coat and his bandana. His forearms are bare as he has pushed his sleeves up. Everyone speaks in English for him (he has realized that Zayn is quite perfect in French) but Louis is trying to teach him to swear in French.

There are many bottles on the table and the music is so loud that they all have to shout. " _Merde_!" Louis is saying. "But you have to pull the face too. _Merde_!"

" _Merde_!" he throws his hands up in frustration but then bursts into laughter. "Jesus, I can't do the accent!"

" _Sheet_ ," Louis says with a grin.

" _Sheet_ ," Harry repeats, copying his deep voice. "I can do that one!" Louis grins.

"Yeah, lad, cheers!" He says with a laugh as he raises his glass and clicks it to Harry's. They both laugh and Liam joins them, too. "More drinks!" Louis orders Zayn and he rolls his eyes.

Zayn finds he keeps watching Harry. There is something about his face that keeps you looking; the way he laughs with his head thrown back, the way his hand reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose, the way his eyelashes flutter when he concentrates. His smile, wide, with dimples showing that he wants so badly to puke.

They lock eyes for a moment and he sees a question and answer between them. Louis is fun, the look says, but we both know that this is about us. When Zayn looks away, he feels a little knot of something in his belly. He goes up to the bar, ordering another round of drinks.

"You finally moved on, eh?" Charlie says, lining up the drinks. He doesn't need to ask what they want, he already knows. "I saw her, by the way."

"Gigi?"

"Yes. She said she had a new job. Something to do with modeling, I don't really remember." Charlie is busy filling up the drinks so he misses Zayn's frown.

He feels a brief pang that something so major has happened in her life without him knowing but he guiltily finds out that he doesn't care. There's no sadness—or pain.

"It's good," Charlie says, not meeting his eyes, "That you are moving on."

And in that one sentence, Zayn realizes that Gigi has someone else. "What's his name?" Zayn asks and Charlie looks at him with pain but before he can answer, Zayn shrugs with a grin. "Ugh, never mind. I have moved on, so should she, eh?"

As he carries the drinks toward the table, he realizes that he meant it. There's a pang of discomfort, awkwardness but not pain. It doesn't matter. It's time to let her go.

"I thought you were getting wine," Harry says with a playful smirk and Zayn finds himself forgetting about Gigi all together as his eyes land on that smirk.

"It's time for tequila," he says with a grin as he bumps his shoulder into Harry's playfully.

"You are in Paris and it's Saturday night," Louis says. "And who needs excuses for tequila! C'mon, let's do it!"

"Yeah!" Harry cheers and takes one of the shots, drinking it in one breath. "Shit," he coughs with laughter and Zayn studies him with a fond smile. "God, fuck," he growls as bitter liquid goes down his tonsils and he coughs with hiccups of laughter.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Louis laughs along Harry and Zayn watches them with a fond smile on his face. "Let's party! Are we going on later?" Louis asks.

Zayn wants to. He feels alive and reckless and he wants to watch HArry laughing until the small hours. He wants to go to a club and dance with them until they can't anymore. He wants to stay awake until the sun comes up and see Harry's green eyes in the light of dawn. He wants to bathe in the sense of hope that comes with something new, someone who sees the best in you not the worst.

With Harry.

"Sure, if Harry wants to," Zayn says, looking at Harry.

"Harry?" Louis looks at him as well. "What kind of name is it anyways? Are you part of the royal family?"

"It's the worst name ever," Harry says with a laugh. "My mum loved history, you see."

"At least she didn't name you, I don't know, Shakespeare?"

"Louis," Zayn cuts in. "Shakespeare was his last name, not his first. It was William which reminds me—Louis William Tomlinson."

"Fuck off, you bastard," Louis growls but he can't help the laugh that feels the space. Harry bursts into laughter. Zayn looks at him and feels proud of the fact that he has made him laugh.

"Anyway, are we on? C'mon, H, tell me!" Louis insists but before Harry can answer, his phone beeps. He glances at the screen.

**Are you OK??????????**

It is from Niall.

"Everything is fine?" Zayn asks when he sees his frown.

"Fine," he says, sliding the phone in his pocket. "Just my friends being... weird. So, where are we going?"

———

It's three in the morning. Zayn knows because his phone has been beeping non-stop with alarms he used to set to get him to sleep on time. But tonight, he doesn't care. He wants to go wild and he's had a lot to drink. His sides hurt from laughing.

Louis is on one of the tables, dancing like his life is depending on it and drinking shot after shot. "C'mon, english man," he calls out to Harry. "Come up and dance. Make Zayn dance too!" he orders before going back to twirling and winking at random girls he sees.

"I have never danced in a club—on a table and all," Harry shouts above the music and Zayn laughs. His favourite song comes on. Once upon a time, he used to listen to the song so much—while he was cleaning, serving, painting. Their boss forbade the song after he caught Zayn listening to it so many times.

"Yeah?" Zayn asks and Harry nods with a faint blush and a dimple-showing smile. "Do it, then! Come on!" Z catches his hand, pulling him towards one of the billiard tables and helps him up. "Dance!"

"Daring me to, aren't you?" Harry says with a loud laugh. "I can't!"

"Come on!" Zayn orders as he starts swinging his hips like madmen and jumping around. Harry laughs and copies Zayn as he moves in all crazy directions.

The raven-haired boy looks up at him and finds himself mesmerized by him. He is laughing from the bottom of his heart, moving his hips and swinging his stupidly large arms. If it was anyone else—like Louis—they would look completely out of place but Harry looks like he is exactly where he should be.

"You dance so well!" Zayn says.

"What?" Harry shouts, unable to hear him from under the music. Zayn shakes his head as if to say _nothing_ and goes on watching him.

That's when it strikes him. He is feeling something he never thought he would ever feel. The feeling that he thought had left him long ago for good.

He feels happy.

———

It is four in the morning or so Harry guesses. Not that it matters, he has long stopped caring when or where they are. He is walking shoulder to shoulder beside Zayn and the moonlight is dancing over Zayn's side view. His claves hurt from all the dancing but he doesn't mind. For the first time in a long time—or maybe ever—he feels truly alive.

He feels the breeze of cold air on his skin, he feels all the emotions all at once and it's amazing.

It's magical! It's _Paris!_

"I'll call Zedel tomorrow. To see if they have found your jacket," Zayn says and Harry chuckles. Yes, he has lost his coat. No, he truly doesn't care. He probably would if he was back in England and if he was his usual self. But he is in Paris and he's not his usual self.

"It doesn't matter, it was an old coat anyway," Harry shrugs. "Oh, shit—" he realizes he had the entry code to the hotel in its pocket. Meaning he can't enter the hotel until seven in the morning. 

He has to wander around in Paris—Joy!

"What?"

"I had the code in it."

"Code?"

"To the hotel. I won't be able to get in," he clarifies, feeling the joy going away slightly and the usual dawn of his usual luck (which is very bad luck) on his night.

Zayn doesn't look at him as the next words leave his mouth. "Well... you could... um... stay at my apartment," he says it casually like it's no big deal.

"Oh, no!" Harry says quickly and swallows before carrying on. "You're so sweet but—"

"But?"

"I don't know you. Thank you, though."

Zayn shrugs as if he knew that Harry wouldn't agree. "It was worth a shot. I bet you are thinking I am a creepy man with I don't know, a skull collection or something?"

"What?! No!" Harry laughs but the idea slowly creeps into his head. "Um..."

"Never mind, Harry," Zayn laughs it off. "We are in Paris. We don't have to go back home to have some _fun_ ," Zayn says with a perverted smile and Harry bumps his shoulder but he can't help the laugh leaving his throat.

"God, stop!" Harry laughs and with his laughter, a bright smile lightens up Zayn's face. Harry feels himself blushing.

"Okay, okay," Zayn breathes. "Well, the hotel will open in,"—he checks his clock—,"two hours and forty-five minutes. We have that much time to kill. We could go to an all-night cafe or we could walk or..." his voice trails off, a plan forming in his head.

Harry waits patiently for him to finally say something but Zayn doesn't. He just flashes him a bright smile and takes his hand. "C'mon, I have something to show you," he says before running and forcing Harry to run after him with a loud squeal.

———

Harry is standing behind the doors of the Disneyland minutes later, his mouth shaped in an O. The place is deserted now. "Disneyland?" Harry asks, not knowing where this is going. Why would they come to an amusement park? Especially at this time of night when it's closed?

"Sure, don't you wanna see Paris under your feet—here has the biggest Ferris wheel in the whole city!" Zayn says as leans on the entrance with a challenging smirk but Harry can sense that he doesn't have the confidence of minutes ago. "I thought you'd appreciate it since you hate queuing so much."

"I do," Harry admits. He really _really_ wants to see Paris as a wholesome city and take it all in. "But I don't see how we are going to get that far. You know, considering that it's closed." His tune is matter-of-factly and Zayn cocks his eyebrows.

"Okay, smartie. Lemme show you how it works," Zayn grins, knocking on the controller cabin's window with a special pattern. Something like _a knock, knock, pause, knock._ Harry frowns, waiting for something to happen—probably a fairy because Zayn seems too keen.

Seconds later, the cabin is lightened up and the door is swinging open as a young, blonde girl appears in the door frame and from the looks of it, she had just woken up. "Who the fuck it that?" she says in a British accent and Harry wonders if the whole London have migrated to Paris.

"Ouch! Has it been that long?" Zayn says and the girl looks at him and recognizes him in an instant. Harry knows because her face lights up at the sight of him.

"Zayn!" she exclaims. "What the—"

"Hello, Pez," he says as he forced the groaning girl into a hug. Harry is just observing all of this, utterly confused with whatever that's going on. "Missed me?"

"Nah, what the hell are you doing here in five in the morning?!" she exclaims but Harry can see that the girl is happy to see Zayn. He feels a weird feeling in his chest. _Who is she?_ He wonders.

"Just wanted to visit you," he says with a smug grin. "I brought a friend along, you see. English tourist." Zayn motions for Harry to step forward so he does. "This is Harry. H, this is my friend Perrie. She works here."

"Nice to meet you," Harry says awkwardly as Perrie's sharp eyes scan through him. Finally, she nods with satisfaction and takes his hand.

"He is cute," Perrie says. "Your new—"

"He is a friend!" Zayn interrupts her with a blush that hopes went unnoticed by both parties. "Now, Pez, can we go up? Pretty please? I'll owe you one."

Perrie throws and uncertain look at him. "I don't know, Zee... I can get in trouble for this..." Zayn gives him one of those Bambi eyes and Perrie can feel herself easing away. "Don't do that, you know I can't resist it!"

"That's kinda why I'm doing in," Zayn replies with a smug face, happy with what he has done.

"Okay, Lord, okay. Just an hour, okay?" Perrie answer, moving out of the door was so they can walk through it. "I swear to God, Malik. If my boss sees you here and I pay for it, I'll kick your arse so bad that you'll land in Bradford."

"Love you, too, Perrie," Zayn says as he sticks his tongue out and places his hand on Harry's waist. "C'mon, Harry,"—Harry feels himself melting away as he hears _Harreh_ — "Let's see Paris."

———

Harry is aware of Zayn's painfully close presence and also Perrie's. She allowed them to seat in the Ferris Wheel and turned it on before going back inside to go on with her beauty sleep. Harry tries not to think about the fact that Zayn and she seemed too close and it made him want to know what the dynamic of their relationship is.

"So," Zayn starts after they are comfortably settled and turns to look at him. "We have an hour—or more, if Perrie oversleeps—to get to know each other. Ask me anything." Harry looks at him and smiles as he licks his front teeth playfully.

"Okay, let me think," he says as he bites his lower lip and Zayn grins. "Okay, um what did you love most as a child?"

"Easy! Football. I could recite all the player's in A league. James—"

"Okay, no," Harry interrupts with a laugh. He doesn't want this ruined by Zayn reciting FIFA players. He is feeling exceptionally romantic in a Ferris Wheel in Paris and he wants it to remain that way. "Well, okay, I got another one. When did you first fall in love?"

"Easy, I was seventeen."

"Who was she?" Harry asks, genuinely curious.

"She was a _he_ ," Zayn says, sticking his tongue out as he smiles. "And his name was Justin. We used to go to the same school and he was a year younger than me. Turned out he didn't swing that way so I moved on."

"What was he like?" Harry asks, suddenly glad that he asked the question. At least now it was more clear... Zayn could've been flirting with him all night now that Harry knows he swings that way.

"Blond hair, baby blue eyes, freckles," Zayn shrugs. "It was ages ago, I don't even remember much."

"Nothing recent?"

"Oh, sure, I lived with Gigi for two years. Until three months ago," Zayn answers, his eyes refusing Harry's.

"This is a _she_ , right?" Harry cocks an eyebrow. Zayn nods. "Okay, but what happened? That is, if you want to talk about it."

"What didn't happen?" Zayn shrugs. "I didn't get a better job, I didn't sell my _amazing_ paintings and become the next Picasso. I didn't grow up and fulfil my potentials."

" _Yet_ ," Harry can't help but add and Zayn looks at him with confusion. "Well, you know, there's no time limit on this stuff. Like, you have a job, a family and friends who love you. You live in _Paris_ and hey, you go to art museums by yourself! It's not like you are lying in your fucking pyjamas and doing nothing!"

"Well, there might've been a bit of lying in my pyjamas all day," Zayn says with a small laugh which makes Harry laugh too.

"Oh, that's the first rule in the Rules of Breakup; lie in your bed all day long and do nothing!" Harry throws his hands up in the air.

"Yeah? And what are the other rules?"

"Um, rule number two, humiliate yourself a bit, then get out and screw up a little. Find someone unsuitable and spend a lot of time with them and then, boom! You are enjoying life again!" Harry explains and then realizes that Zayn's stare is a bit too intense. "What?"

"And we should experience all of it?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugs with a small smile. "Maybe you can skip one or two levels."

"Well, i have already humiliated myself, so that's out of the way..." Zayn says and the Ferris Wheel stops spinning. "What the—"

"Guys, there's a difficulty down here, I'm fixing it, okay?" Perrie's voice comes up seconds later. She is shouting in something like microphone. Harry really can't see from that height.

"Alright!" Zayn shouts back and settles in his sit again. "Yeah, where was I?"

"Humiliating yourself," Harry says with a playful smirk. "C'mon, Zayn. I'm from another country—well, I know you are too but well, you live here—anyways the point is, you'll probably never gonna see me again. It's good to pour your heart out, innit?"

"Okay, this is really embarrassing..." Zayn says with an awkward smile but when Harry cocks an eyebrow he held his hands out in peace sign. "Okay, okay. Well, for weeks after our breakup, I went swinging around her office with a face like this,"—He makes a face that can only be named as Gallic Sad Face—,"and waited for her to fall in love with me again."

Harry tried to suppress the laugh that's trying to escape his mouth. "I'm not laughing," he says but a hiccup of laughter leaves his mouth. "It's not funny, I swear. That face does it for anyone—they'll fall for you right away." Another laugh. "Sorry, I am _not_ laughing."

"Bloody hell, you can laugh—it's funny. I know," Zayn says and starts laughing himself. Harry joins him.

"Well," Harry says after the laughter is over. "Who is Perrie then?"

"Another ex," Zayn says with a smirk.

"Woah, you've dated around a lot." Harry finds himself a bit bitter about it and he doesn't even know why.

"Well, we dated when we were in high school for like, a week, yeah? Then we just cut it off—we're better off as friends." Zayn shrugs and Harry grins. That's good— _just_ friends.

"So—"

"My turn, Harry," Zayn interrupts him. "I deserve a question or two, don't I?"

"Okay, but not relationships," Harry warns. "There's a reason as to why I'm an expert on the 101 Rules of Breakups."

"Okay, then... What's the best thing that has ever happened to you?"

"You know, I'm kind of hoping that it hasn't happened yet," Harry says after a while. "It'd be sad if it had happened and I had missed it."

"Okay, then, what's the worst thing?"

"You don't wanna know," Harry mumbles.

"You don't want to say?" His tune is light as if he is telling Harry that it's okay, he doesn't have to tell him.

But it's not fair. Zayn has answered all the questions and he deserves an answer and anyways, Harry said it himself, they're not going to meet again. He can say it.

"Well, um... okay. It was when my dad left us when I was fifteen," he finally says. "Um it was on my birthday, second February, and my mum and Gem—my sister—were planning the party when I was out with my friends. And then I came home, expecting a party and all I was faced was the empty space of my father's belongings and my mum who didn't stop crying."

He hasn't told this to anyone except Niall and Nick; he didn't want to be seen as _the boy who grew up with no father because his father dumped them_. He realizes he hasn't told Xander all of this.

"And well, since that day... well, Gemma took it out, overreacted—got drunk in parties, went off to college and never once visited home, avoided him like he never existed. My mum broke down; she thought she wasn't enough or something and me... well, I was me. I tried to pick up the pieces, you know..."

His voice drifts away and now, he is waiting for Zayn to say something. _Please don't say something stupid,_ he begs him mentally. He doesn't want him to express how _sorry_ he is and tell a similar tale that had happened to his good neighbour.

"That's bad," Zayn simply says and looks at him. "But you were alright. I mean, you went the other way?"

The Ferris Wheel starts spinning.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you took the life by its horn, you know. Found your own way."

"Zayn the truth is—" Harry starts awkwardly. No, he didn't take shit by horns. He didn't find _shit_. But he is interrupted when Zayn jumps up excitedly and almost gives Harry a heart attack.

"Wow, look!" Zayn exclaims and Harry looks around, realizing that they are on the top of the Ferris Wheel, in the air and all the lights are shining beneath them. Zayn wraps his arm around his shoulder and pulls him close as he points towards the Eiffel Tower. "See? That's the heart of this city!"

Harry looks at the direction Zayn is pointing at and he feels himself relishing everything and focus on the landscape in front of them because he isn't sure he will ever see something like it again. His breath is knocked out of him as his eyes linger on the city under him. It's like his own personal fairy tale. "Wow," Harry breathes and Zayn looks at his side view, taking in pleasure in surprising the young man.

"You like it, yeah?" he asks with a cheeky grin. Harry turns and looks at him and his eyes are glowing and at that moment, Zayn can swear he has never seen anything more beautiful and enchanting.

"You asked me a question a while ago. _This_ is the best thing that has ever happened to me!"

Zayn doesn't recall a previous memory where he has smiled wider.

———

"Here you go," Zayn says with a smile as they finally reach the front door of the hotel. They had to walk a few meters since Zayn's moped ran out of gas mid-way. He said he'd go back and take it after he made sure Harry made it to the hotel.

"Yup, here I go," Harry says with an awkward smile. So now what? Are they to part and pretend like they never met in the first place? Harry doesn't know so he waits for Zayn to start talking.

"Well," Zayn says. "You probably need some sleep, yeah?"

Harry expected more—he really did. That simple sentence makes him doubt—was he delusional when he thought Zayn had spent the last night and morning flirting with him? "Yeah, you, too. Also, thank you for... everything? I enjoyed it."

"Yeah, any time again," Zayn says with a grin and pushes his hands deep in his pocket. There's nothing else coming so Harry wonders if he should just go back inside. But before he can move, Zayn takes a step closer.

He can feel his lungs running out of air. Two more steps and they'd be chest-to-chest. Harry can feel his heart racing, unaware of what's going to happen next.

Then, his phone beeps and he looks down.

**Call me!!!!!**

The message is from Niall and he frowns. What had gotten into _him_? He looks up after a while and he sees, with sadness, that the moment is gone. Zayn has stepped back. "Is anything wrong?" The raven-haired man asks.

"Nope, all good," Harry replies and shoves his phone into his pocket. Some part of him is wondering why would Niall want him to call him at this hour in the morning?

"Harry?" Zayn says all of a sudden.

"Yeah?" he diverts his attention to Zayn, deciding that he'll deal with Niall later.

"Would you like... I mean for your Parisian experience, would you like to come to dinner tonight?" Zayn asks with a tune that is trying hard to keep things casual but the nervous body language exposes him. Harry finds himself thinking that he is cute.

Or maybe hot as fuck.

He can't decide.

So, he smiles in response, making sure his dimples are on full display. "I would very much like that."

"Then, I'll pick you up at seven, yeah?"

"Sounds like a plan," Harry says and both their smiles can make the sun melt from shame.

———

Xander is squeezed between Niall and Nick at the back of the cab and he can swear that it has at least been forty-five minutes. He is now almost completely sober, having been frog-marched from the pub to the taxi station, a twenty-minute walk up the seafront, silenced by the collective wrath of two very-sober men.

"I have never heard of anything like this and believe me when I say I'm the king of crappy girlfriends," Niall growls, giving a look to Xander which if could kill, he'd be six feet underground by now.

"You _know_ Harry gets anxious over stuff, he starts overthinking, you wanker," Nick growls. "He doesn't even get the late train until he checks out the exact time it's stopping! And you left him in Paris? What were you even thinking?"

"I didn't even ask to go to Paris!" Xander argues.

"Then you fucking say, _NO!_ " Niall hisses at him, his voice filled with venom. "You fucking say, _no, Harry I'm not going to Paris with you_. You don't stand them up in a foreign country!"

Xander sighs, too afraid to actually pull an eyes-roll. "Where are you taking me?"

"Shut up and you will fucking see," Niall warns and they don't exchange a word until the taxi stops, Niall pays him off and Nick forces Xander out of his sit only to reveal that they're in the airport.

"What the hell are we doing here?" Xander argues but as soon as Niall throws him another glare, he shuts it, following them inside.

"This gentleman would like a ticket to Paris on the next possible flight please," Niall says as soon as they arrive at the reception.

The woman checks her screen. "Certainly, sir, we have a seat on a British Airways flight for Charles de Gaulle in an hour and ten minutes."

"He'll take it," Nick says, nodding at the woman. "How much will it be?"

"One way? That'll be one hundred and forty-five pounds."

"You're kidding me, right?" says Xander who has stayed quiet for too long. "It's—"

"Open your wallet, Xander," Niall warns in the calmest voice he can master but also shows that it's not a good idea for him to disagree. The airline woman has started to look properly concerned now but Nick ignores her as he reaches for Xander's wallet and takes out the money he has in it.

"A hundred and ten pounds," he announces and Xander wants to open his mouth to protest but the glare both men shoot makes him gulp. "I have twenty and he'll need a little cash to get there, Niall?"

He shakes his head but reaches for his wallet nevertheless. "Here, fifty bucks is all I got," Niall hands the money Nick.

"Sir..." the woman looks properly concerned now. "Are you happy to take this flight?"

"Yes, he is," Niall snaps but the woman's gaze doesn't flatter.

"I have to call security if he is not. I can't issue the ticket if the gentleman isn't travelling by will."

There is a short silence and the boys exchange a look before Niall huffs out his breath. "Okay, ma'am, Miss Airline lady, our best friend Harry is a nervous traveller—he is a nervous everything so she gets anxious about everything and this _gentleman_ right here was supposed to be due on a romantic weekend with him in Paris but turns out he preferred to spend his time with his low-life friends in Brighton and therefore stood our very nervous friend up who is probably now squeezed in his room and feels like the biggest idiot on earth. Therefore we think it's a good idea if Xander right here got on your flight and gave his boyfriend a romantic twenty-four hours in Paris so yes, there might be a little coercion involved but it's for the best."

"It's done by _love_ ," Nick adds.

There is a short silence before the woman huffs her breath out, "Okay, I'm calling the security."

" _What?_ Come _on_!" Niall throws his hands in the air. "Seriously?"

Xander looks a bit smug and Niall wants to break his knuckles in his face.

"Yes," the woman says. "I think it's sensible if your friend had an escort to make sure he does make it to the plane." she then speaks into the phone. "Desk eleven, can I have a security office over here? We need to ensure a gentleman gets to Gate fifty-six safely."

———

Harry feels like he is _alive_ when he wakes up in the afternoon that day. It was expected—he did stay up all night after all—but he still has three hours before he has Zayn over to pick him up. He allows himself to cuddle with the sheets with a goofy smile on his face as he reviews the events of last night.

It was the most magical night of his life and he hasn't lied if he said he was super excited to see what else Zayn has for him. With those thoughts, he finally gets up and attaches his dead phone to the charger before walking into the shower, an unexpectedly happy aura surrounding him.

———

"You are the best, Louis," Zayn says for the hundredth time that afternoon.

He skipped sleep altogether as he rushed to Louis's place that morning, just to be faced with a sleepy friend. They crashed on Louis's bed to get a proper amount of sleep before they properly woke up. Then, he explained everything to Louis and asked him for advice.

That's how Louis ended up calling the owner of their cafe and asked him to give them the back yard for the evening. He asked why; Louis ended up explaining everything for him and that's how they ended up getting the cosy place beside the river with low light and romantic bulbs. It was for their boss's son and he said he'd be glad to make a reservation for them—for free!—and also a tour on the boat.

"I know," Louis answers for the hundredth time as well. Zayn rolls his eyes but still cracks a genuine grin, looking around the table that's his for the night and preparations.

Louis has brought a candle, the small light bulbs around the table are set, he's going to play soft music in the background and he's certain they're gonna have the best evening ever. "This is perfect, innit?"

"Sure is," Louis nods. "If he doesn't fall in love with you tonight, and Disneyland hasn't done it for him, then you just have to give up. There's no further you can go."

"Shut up," Zayn wants to snap but a smile creeps on his face. "It's not about _love_ , we are having a little fun while we're at it."

"Says the boy who fell for Gigi after a week and she was a bit—", Zayn glares at him, "Barbie," Louis chokes on his words. "And Harry is an angel, warm-hearted and adorable. I bet you have already fallen for him, you are a hopeless romantic my friend."

"Shut up," Zayn snaps at him this time but somewhere at the back of his mind, he fears what Louis says has some truth to it...

———

It's ten minutes left to seven when Zayn arrives at the door of Harry's hotel, with a grin on his face and a rose in his hand. The receptionist eyes him with curiosity. "I'm here for Harry—Mister Harry Styles," he explains.

"Yes, you are," the older woman says with a smile, looking at the rose which makes Zayn look at it as well.

"Too much?" he asks, rubbing his palm to his trousers. He is so worried—he hasn't been this anxious since his first date with Gigi and that was almost two years ago.

"Just the right amount, monsieur," she says before attending to her papers again and Zayn mutters a _thank you_ with a boyish chuckle. His heart is fluttering, beating like a teenager anticipating their long-lost crush of a few years.

It's only minutes later when the door of the elevator swings open and Harry comes out in a tailored trouser and a shirt that was a bit loose and the first few buttons were undone, with a leather jacket on his hands. Zayn felt his heart missing a beat—Harry fucking Styles looked like a Roman God walking around on earth!

"Zayn!" he exclaims when he lays his eyes on the raven-haired man and walks towards him with a bright smile, cocking an eyebrow when he sees the rose. "Whoah, is this for me?"

"Hello, you," Zayn says, placing a fleeting kiss on Harry's cheek to make it clear that it _is_ a date and Harry shows no protest against it so Zayn hands him the rose. "And yes, this is for you, handsome."

Harry turns a bright shade of red before putting on his coat and fixing his posture. "Shall we?" He asks Zayn, pointing at the door when he pats his pocket to make sure his phone is there.

Zayn nods and places his hand so very gently on Harry's small back and they enter the almost chilly weather of Paris. The city is busy around them. "So where are we going?"

"You will see soon, enough. But it's not far so I didn't break my bike, we can walk, yeah?"

"Sure," Harry says, smiling at the prospect of it. A walk in the evening in the busy streets of the City of Lovers before a _date_ is exactly what Harry had in his mind for the weekend.

It might not be with the person he expected but to be honest, he wouldn't trade Zayn with hundreds of Xanders. He slowly slips his hand into Zayn's with a shy smile as he interlocks his fingers with his. "Can I?" his voice is no louder than a whisper but it touches Zayn wholly, making him shiver in anticipation as he holds Harry's hands.

"So," Harry starts. "I was thinking about last night."

"Yeah? Me, too," Zayn says with a smirk. "What about it, though?"

"Disneyland, it was _crazy_ , you know? I always wanted to go there when I was like, fourteen, thirteen? Maybe younger, I don't even know and then all of a sudden, ten years later, I am there on the top of a fucking Ferris Wheel, it sounded surreal."

"You liked it?"

"I loved it," Harry says, looking at Zayn with glassy green eyes. "I was also thinking about _you_. I mean you are an _artist_ , why don't you capture those feels, you know? You wanted to draw something deep, right? What is deeper than _real-life_ human feelings, hm? Like, just _children_ and _people_ on the top of Ferris Wheels!"

Zayn smiles at Harry's eagerness, the way his painted nails cut through the year as he excitedly moved his hands in the air. "That's smart, H," he says with a genuine smile.

"Yeah? I mean I don't want to sound, like, I'm overstepping but it was like, a thought," he says with a faint blush. "What were _you_ thinking about?"

"I—" Zayn starts but there's a ring and Harry pats his pocket with a frown, pulling his hand out of Zayn's with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Zayn, can I take this?" He says as he pulls out his phone. No one calls him these days and if someone has, it's definitely something important.

"Sure," Zayn says, feeling his gut twitching. Somehow, he doesn't have a positive feeling towards this whole thing but it's probably his nerves talking.

"Hello?" Harry says into the phone and then goes silent, listening to the person on the other side of the line. Zayn looks at him, seeing his eyebrows knitting together, has freehand clenching and unclenching. "Thank... Yeah, I will be there. Yes, I know him. I am well-aware, please do so. No, it's no problem." He finally hangs up and looks at Zayn and Zayn suddenly know, yet he waits for Harry.

"Um, Zayn, there's... someone had shown up in the hotel to see me and... um..."

"You have a boyfriend," he acknowledges, his mouth swung open. No other word leaves his mouth, looking at Harry to tell him that he was being ridiculous.

"It's... complicated, Zayn..." Harry finally says. "I am so sorry, I have to go..."

"It's okay," Zayn finally utters, forcing a smile on his face. "We had fun, yeah? So you go down there and take a turn to the left when you see the church. Do you want me to take you?"

Harry smiles apologetically and nods. "We did, I'm so sorry... thanks for the instruction, I can go by my own. Bye!" he says and he turns on his heels, almost running away from Zayn.

Zayn stands there, dumbfounded trying to convince himself that he didn't feel disappointed.

———

Zayn isn't sure how he goes to the cafe but it's the nearest place he can go to see familiar faces. Louis is behind the counter when Zayn arrives there, taking orders. As soon as the blue-eyed lad lays eyes on Zayn, his smile turning into a frown when he sees Zayn's face. Three minutes later, Louis was at Zayn's side. "What the hell? Shouldn't you be on your date with Harry?"

"There was no _date_ with Harry," Zayn says, sounding a bit more bitter than he intended. "Turns out he had a boyfriend and I was just a _Paris experiment_... I guess. It's okay, it was nothing."

But it was _something_. He felt it and he is sure Harry did too. He saw regret and sorriness in his eyes as well and he can't help but think what would happen if his _boyfriend_ hadn't shown up.

Well, he did.

"It was nothing," he repeats himself.

"Oh, Zayn, come off it," Louis pats him on the shoulder. "Fuck dates, yeah? We have to go clubbing tonight, get laid and find something new!"

Zayn wants to say no, he wants to stay in and pity himself. But he knows he'll overthink and think of scenarios he knows will never happen anymore. "Yeah, okay," he says instead.

———

He is standing at the counter, arms crossed and whistling under his breath. Harry can't believe his eyes so he stands frozen at the door. Xander turns to face the door, that's when he sees him and grins. "Babe!"

Harry is still frozen, looking at Xander. His eyes slip from the woman behind the reception to Xander. The receptionist refuses to meet his eyes and he can _hear_ her thinking ill of him. "What are you doing here?" he asks when he is finally out of his trance.

"Well, surprise! I thought we could turn your weekend in Paris to one night. Still counts, eh?"

"But you said you weren't coming."

"You know me. Full of surprises. And I couldn't leave you alone here with the cheese-eating surrender monkeys!"

Harry feels himself blushing with fury. How dare he throw insults at the people who have been kind to him when he wasn't? It's like he's looking at a stranger. His hair is longer, his jeans faded and his shirt—which used to look cool—is now tacky and out of place.

 _Stop it,_ he tells himself. _He has come all this way to be with you, be happy!_ He has done the very thing Harry wanted him to do—that must count for something.

"You look great, babe, cute shirt. Do I get a welcome?"

He steps forward, kissing him. He tastes like cheap beer. He doesn't know why he hoped he'd taste like cigarettes and cinnamon. Something like... Zayn? _Stop!_ "Sorry," he stammers, easing his breaths. It's his _boyfriend_. "I... I'm just a bit shocked."

"I like to keep you on your toes, eh? So shall we dump my shit and go get a drink? Or we could spend the evening upstairs with a little room service." Harry looks at the receptionist nervously, ignoring Xander's stupid grin. The woman is looking at Xander like he's some nasty pile of garbage and Harry can't even blame her.

"They don't do room service here, only breakfast."

"What?"

"They don't do room service. At this hotel," Harry snaps, a bit harsher than he intended.

"What the hell kind of hotel is this? Every hotel does room service!"

Harry doesn't dare glance at the receptionist this time. Xander is being an absolute arsehole. "Well, they don't here... because... because why would you eat in when you're in Paris?"

"Okay," Xander finally huffs out. "Whatever." he shrugs and rubs his hands on his jeans.

That's when Harry notices his feet and frowns. "You didn't change your shoes," he notes. "You came here—to a romantic trip in Paris—in your flip-flaps?" Harry tries to stop looking at his feet.

"What's the matter, Harry? Jeez! This isn't the welcome I was expecting!"

He tries to pull himself together. He's right, he's being a shit boyfriend. So he tries to slap on a smile. "You're right. It's good you came. Let's go upstairs," he says and catches Xander's arms, making their way across the lobby. Then, Harry stops and Xander looks at him, obviously irritated.

"One thing, though," he says. "I just... I just want to know—how did you end up coming after all? You said you weren't going to make it. That's what the text said. Very clearly."

"Well... I didn't like to leave you alone like that, you know. I know how anxious you get when plans change and all that shite."

"You had no problem leaving me alone last night. And Friday night."

"Yes... well," he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. There's a long silence.

"Well... what?"

Xander puts on his smile—which Harry deemed charming but he sees is frustration and manipulation. "Look, do we have to do this now? I've just gotten off a flight. Let's go upstairs, hit the sack, then go hit the Paris hot spots. Yes? C'mon, babe. This ticket cost a small fortune. Let's just have a good time."

Harry stares as Xander's stretched out a hand as if he is pleading with a kid. But Harry isn't a kid. He's a twenty-four-year-old grown man. Almost reluctantly, he passes the keys to Xander and he doesn't hesitate or even wait for Harry as he walks up the wooden staircase.

"Monsieur?" the reception calls him.

Harry turns on his heel in a daze. He had almost forgotten she was there. "Yes?"

"Your friend left a message."

"Zayn?!" His voice is excited and he hates himself for it.

"No. Another man. While you were out." She hands him the paper and he momentarily feels like she must think he's a whore but the pitying look in her eyes says otherwise so he just unfolds the paper and reads.

**PETE IS ON HIS WAY. HAVE KICKED HIS ARSE. SORRY, WE HAD NO IDEA. HOPE THE REST OF WEEKEND WORKS OUT OKAY. NIALL.**

Harry stares at the note, gazes at the staircase and then at the receptionist. He thinks for a moment as he hears Xander's feet echoing in the staircase and then, he shoves the paper in his pocket.

"Ma'am? Could you tell me the best place to get a taxi? I need to find someone."

"With pleasure," says the woman with a proud smile.

———

Harry drops by the cafe Zayn works in first. Neither him nor Louis are in but he catches a glimpse of Liam. "Oh, Liam, hi," he says making his way towards him. "Zayn isn't in tonight?"

"He and Louis took the evening off. I guess they went to a club," Liam answers, shrugging. It seems like he doesn't know what has happened. Harry rubs his forehead rather nervously.

"Which club? Please, it's important."

"Wildcat bar, or club, whichever, you just need to—"

But Harry doesn't wait for him to finish. He says a quick thank you before spinning on his heel and storming out of the cafe like a mad man and throwing himself inside the taxi. "Wildcat Club," he says hastily, barely able to utter the words.

The driver cocks an eyebrow, shaking his head as he rapidly talks in French. Harry catches the fact that he doesn't know where the club is and he's frustrated with the fact that Harry is making him run around the city.

The green-eyes boy presses his palms to his cheeks as her tires to think of something. Finally, he rolls the window down, shouting at a couple of youngsters that are drunk out of their mind. "Hey, guys, do you know where the Wildcat club is?"

"Why? You want to take us?" A brunette lad says.

"Sure, if you tell me where it is!"

"We show you!" They drunkenly cheer and throw themselves in the cab and take off while one of them says things to the taxi driver rapidly.

Harry should be scared. They could take him anywhere—they could rob him and leave him off in any place, stark naked because they have stolen his clothes as well. Hell, they could _kill_ him or rape him.

But at that moment, he just wants to get to the club and he's willing to take the risk.

So he sits back, trying to clear his head while they drive in the dead of night.

———

"One more drink, c'mon," Louis says, shoving another beer into Zayn's hands. "We've _just_ started. It's getting good."

"I'm not in the mood," Zayn growls, staring at his hands.

"So he had a boyfriend. It happens! C'mon, you can't let it get you down! You knew him for like, two days! You hardly knew each other!"

Zayn says nothing, just swigs back his beer.

"You take it all too seriously, you know? But look—it means you are over Gigi. so that's good! And you are a very handsome man—"

Zayn raises an eyebrow playfully.

"What?" Louis protests. "I cannot appreciate the male form? Zayn! My friend! If I swung that way or was a woman, I would be climbing all over you! I would be swimming in the still waters of Zayn. I would be climbing the Zayn tree. What?"

"Too much," Zayn says, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Okay. So, luckily for the womankind, I am other ways inclined. But c'mon! Let's find another person! At least now we have more than a name to avoid—the G-word and the H-word."

"Thank, Louis, but I'll finish this beer and go. Work tomorrow, you know."

Louis shrugs, obviously fed up with his shit and turns back to the girl he was talking to as if he wasn't eating Eleanor out yesterday. Zayn doesn't mind. Louis doesn't care. He just bounces onto the next thing like a puppy. _Hey! Let's have fun,_ he always says.

 _Don't knock it,_ he scolds himself. _At least he's not a loser like you._

He feels a faint dread at what is to come next. The long evening at his flat. The working on sketches that he is no longer sure that are worth working on. The fact that Harry disappeared. The way he will be kicking himself because he thought there was something more. He can't even blame him—he never asked Harry if he had a boyfriend. Of course, a boy like him would be taken.

He feels his mood sinking even further. It's time to go—he doesn't want to bring anyone down. So he stands up, says goodbye to Louis's girl and pats Louis's shoulder before leaving a twenty Euro bill on the table and taking his jacket.

He needs to get out of here, so he doesn't pay mind to the fact that he is drunk or if it's safe if he drives his bike when he is a bit tipsy.

Outside, he gets on his moped and kick-starts it, driving into the night.

———

Zayn stops at the end of the street to fix his jacket since the cold is creeping into his drunken bone. That's when he hears a faint shout. "Zayn!"

He turns around, looking for the source, half-convinced that he's hallucinating. Bloody joy, he has gone mad after a boy he knew for less a week broke his heart.

But looking back, he sees Louis on the porch of the Club, swinging his hands like the idiot he is, shouting for him to come back in rapid French. Next to him is standing someone that makes Zayn's breath rapid, his heart racing. Harry fucking Styles.

"Come back, you idiot mop of hair," Louis screams at the top of his long and his voice makes Zayn's ears bleed. Kind of.

A few seconds later, he is in front of the club, still not quite knowing what's happening. He just knows Harry is there with the biggest smile he has ever seen and dimples he wants to poke.

"So that means you'll have that wine by yourselves?" Louis asks but Zayn and Harry are too caught up in a staring game to pay him any attention.

And then Harry closes the distance between them with a long step and presses his lips on Zayn's.

Zayn has never melted into a kiss this fast.

———

They are walking arm in arm through the deserted streets, past the art galleries and huge old buildings. It's a quarter to four in the morning. Harry's legs ache from dancing, his ears ringing and he has never felt less tired.

When they left Wildcat, they had swayed a little, drunk on the evening, deer, tequila and life but somehow in the last half an hour he had sobered.

"Harry, I have no idea where we are going," Zayn says, linking his fingers with Harry's, lacing them together as Harry lets out a giggle. He doesn't care. He could walk like this forever.

"Well, I can't go back to the hotel, Xander might still be there."

"Well, at least he isn't a serial killer," Zayn winks at Harry playfully, making him blush and lets out a laugh.

"I'd rather share with a serial killer with an axe in his hands," Harry shrugs. He has told Zayn the whole story. At first, Zayn looked like he wanted to hit Xander. Harry realized, with shame, that he liked that.

"Now I feel a bit sorry for Xander," Zayn says. "He comes all this way to Paris to find you and you run away with a cheese-eating surrender monkey."

"Well, you are technically English," Harry says with a laugh. "And he's a xenophobic piece of shit, so who cares? I don't feel bad about it, isn't that _awful_?" Harry grins.

"You clearly are a very cruel man," Zayn nudges his side.

Harry huddles closer to him. "Oh, _horrible!_ "

Zayn puts his arm around him. "You know, Harry, I'm sure you'll probably say no, but I just wanted to tell you again—you can stay with me. If you like."

He almost hears his old self screeching in his ear. _Are you going back to a stranger's house in Paris?_ But he can hear himself saying. "That would be lovely." A pause. "But I'm not going to... you know, sleep with you. You are wonderful, you really are, but—"

"Harry, I don't want to sleep with you," Zayn interrupts him with a smile. "It's not like that, it was just an offer. Sure, I would sleep with you if you wanted to but I know you don't really know me and we're in the wrong stage of your break up chart."

"So it's okay?" Harry says with a small smile. "For me to come back with you to your house?"

"It's _your_ Paris weekend, Haz," Zayn says and Harry feels things he shouldn't when Zayn calls him by his nickname. "Your choice."

His flat is ten minutes away by foot, he says. Harry has no idea what will happen next. It's absolutely thrilling.

Zayn lives in the top of an old house with a narrow staircase. Nothing too fancy or what you could call beautiful but it's still better than many places Harry has gone to. He isn't sure how many hundred stairs they climb until they enter his house.

The place is a mess but it's not the first thing that Harry notices about it. The walls are a warm shade of light brown and most walls are covered with pictures and sketches. Harry feels flattered by it but he is extremely captured by a certain combination of sketches on the wall, so he stares at it.

"I did those back when I was at school, didn't really feel like taking them down after it though," Zayn explains and Harry smiles, looking away and looking around with fascination.

"The place is a mess," Zayn says, rubbing his neck. "Well, I didn't know anyone was going to show up and—"

"It's so beautiful," Harry interrupts him. "It's... magical!"

"It's not," Zayn says as he cocks an eyebrow. "Magical?"

"I just... I just like it? It feels like _home_ you know. It feels like everything has something to say, it's like it's a story, you know. Fuck, I just like it, okay?" He says with a laugh as he feels himself flushing up as he melts under Zayn's smile. Did he use to smile this much? He looks so much better when he is.

Zayn simply nods, walking to the small kitchen and opens the fridge. "Do you want anything?"

Harry shakes his head and stares at the walls. "Well, then, do you mind if I..." Zayn starts and his voice drifts off when he points at the bathroom. Harry shakes his head and Zayn disappears.

It's probably better. Harry is excited, his heart beating rapidly. He takes off his jacket, laying it on the only sofa Zayn has in the corner and fixes his shirt.

He feels reckless as he walks around the small area and looks out of the window. It seems like he has the streets under him, maybe he's flying. He smiles at the thought, he would love to be able to fly.

There are notebooks splashed all over the room, some half-open some have torn away papers, some have mindless sketches while others have detailed drawings so Harry picks up one.

He probably shouldn't, it's Zayn's place and he's invading his privacy but his curiosity gets the better of him and he kneels and picks on, flicking through the pages.

He can feel himself running out of breath because fucking hell, they are so beautiful...

When Zayn comes out of the bathroom, he's already halfway through the first notebook. "No, you weren't meant to see that," Zayn whines as soon as he realizes what Harry is holding.

"Why? Is it something personal?" Harry asks, closing the notebook.

"No, it's just that... It's really bad—okay, it _sucks_ and I didn't want the whole idea of _artist_ you had about me tarnished after seeing those. Because... yeah, it's not good."

"Are you shitting me?" Harry furrows his eyebrows, holding the notebook up. "This, right here, is one of the best things I have ever seen!"

"You don't have to say that to make me feel better," Zayn growls. "I know that—"

"For fuck's sake, Zee, you are really thick in the head! It's so good. You can't stop like that, you know? Show me more."

"No—"

"You said it's _my_ weekend in Paris so show me your works so I can tell my friends, A _real artist showed me his paintings when I was in Paris_. Please," Harry tries to pull out his best puppy dog eyes and he can see it working as Zayn chuckles and sighs.

"Okay, but we have to go out there for that."

Harry is about to ask what he means when Zayn opens the window and walks out to the rooftop. Harry's mouth swings open. "You want me to sit on a rooftop," Harry peers but Zayn has disappeared so he climbs up as well. "Okay!"

Minutes later, they are sitting in cold weather, closer than two friends would sit and Zayn is flipping through the pages. There are portraits, sceneries, comic paintings—almost everything. But the one painting that catches Harry's eyes is of an old lady sitting next to the window with a cigarette in her hands.

"This is so beautiful," Harry says in a daze. He feels his heart captured by that piece. "It bears so many feelings, you know—It's... what were you feeling while drawing this?"

Zayn shrugs. "Everything," he muses. "Hate, love, sorrow, grief, joy... I can't even begin to express."

"I can," Harry says, his fingers tracing the pattern of the woman's body. Thin and rigid and in contrast with his wrinkles. The painting is so detailed and raw. He finally looks up. "It's amazing, that's exactly why you should never stop. You should paint, and paint and have an art gallery so everyone will see _this_ and all the things you draw."

Zayn looks at him in surprise, his Bambi eyes wide. Harry feels overwhelmed. Almost without knowing what he's doing, he takes Zayn's face in his hands, caressing his cheeks and leaning in for a kiss.

It isn't like their first kiss, reckless and surprised and shocked.

This one is just as raw but it bears so many feelings. His soft lips are against his and he pours out everything he's feeling. He relishes joy, ecstasy and joy in the kiss. He fills the empty spots around them with passion and care and... love. At least the simple glimpse that has overtaken him. The feeling of loving life at that precise moment.

When they pull away, Harry can swear he doesn't know himself. He would never do that. He wouldn't kiss strangers—twice in the same night—but it doesn't matter because he's in Paris!

"You are _magnifique_ ," Zayn says, the French word leaving his mouth sounding hotter than it should.

"And everything you say sounds better because you are saying it in French. I might as well adopt a fake French accent and talk like that for the rest of my life."

Zayn chuckles, pouring both of them a glass of wine and handing it to Harry. They gaze at each other and they grin. Harry scoots closer to Zayn because it's cold and he feels good. His body feels warm and welcoming. "So, Zee, why did you move to Paris?"

"Hm, let's see. I wanted to study art, my dad thought it'd be just a waste of my life but I applied for an art uni in Paris and I got accepted so I and Perrie ditched our parents and ended up in Paris," Zayn explains with a smile. "Well, turns out he thought right because I ended up being a waiter anyways." Zayn sips from his wine and Harry raises his hand to carcass his neck. He's so warm.

"He's not right. You _are_ an artist. Just not a known one. _Yet_." Zayn smiles at him and he feels like everything is fine. "Okay, then another question. What did you want to tell me this evening?"

"What?"

"When we were walking? Before my phone rang, you said you were thinking about last night as well."

"Oh," Zayn says and he blushes slightly. "It wasn't important." Harry raises an eyebrow. "Okay, well, I wanted to tell you... you know, after Gigi left me I thought I was doomed. That I would never have fun again; like I'd never feel _happy_ again. Last night, when we were dancing, I realized I was confused. I had mistaken that feeling for feeling unhappy. And... you made me so happy last night."

Harry isn't sure if he has ever smiled wider. He connects their hands, leaning his head on Zayn's shoulder and pulling his legs to his chest. It's cold but he feels so warm. "Well, when Xander didn't turn up this weekend, I felt like I wanted to die. I was terrified and I felt alone."

"And now?" Zayn asks when Harry says nothing for a while.

"Now, I feel like I have fallen in love with an entire city," Harry breathes the words out and feels Zayn's head against his hair. He can swear it's the most romantic moment of his life.

"What was your plan for our date tonight though?"

"So, it _was_ a date!" Zayn exclaims happily. "I thought I was an idiot for thinking it was!"

"It was," Harry says with a laugh. "I'm sorry that I ruined it. Well, technically that son of a bitch ruined it but still."

"Well, it was dinner, and then boat-riding in the depth of the night. It would be fine but I'm sure we had more fun just being _ourselves_. Wild, unpredictable, you know."

Harry shuffles uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "Well, Zayn I'm not the boy you think I am," he says, avoiding his brown gaze.

"And who do I think you are?" Zayn asks softly.

"You know, the person I made you believe I was. Impulsive, reckless, _wild, unpredictable_. It's just not me. Tonight, I almost didn't come because even the idea of fetching a taxi in a foreign country made me scared. I plan everything, I freak out when it doesn't work. I let you think I was a different type of person... I'm sorry."

"Was it someone else dancing on that bar? Chasing me around Paris in a taxi full of drunk strangers? Leaving his boyfriend in a hotel room without even telling him where he was going?"

" _Ex_ -boyfriend," Harry corrects him. He sits beside him and studies his warm, kind face.

"I think you are exactly this man, Harry-from-England. You are whoever you choose to be."

It's getting light outside. He traces Zayn's cheekbone with his fingers, his lips and his warm skin. "This has been the night of my life," he says. "I feel like... I feel like I just woke up."

Zayn smiles. "Me, too."

Minutes later, Zayn is helping him get inside. Harry waits for Zayn to come in and close the window behind him. His hair is ruffled, his eyes wild and his brown skin is shining under the light.

And Harry knows what he has said. He knows he said no sleeping with him. But he _wants_ this. Fuck, he has never wanted anything more.

So he strides towards Zayn, pushing his back against the window and presses his lips to Zayn's.

He is sure he will never regret this decision.

———

Even before Zayn opens his eyes, he knows that it's different. There used to be a weight on his chest that has vanished and the events of last night slowly come back to him. Opening his eyes, he sees Harry's naked back pressed against his chest and he smiles.

He is so good. He is warm and safe and everything Zayn thinks he's ever wanted. That's why he presses light kisses to his skin, slowly ridiculing his back with his lips. Harry moves slightly, mumbling something inaudible and Zayn moves on to kissing his neck, his shoulders, the start of his hairline.

Harry giggles sleepily, turning to face him with his eyes half-open. He looks like an angel, with his skin lightened up by the sunrays and his nose scrunched up with a soft smile. "Good morning," Harry rasps in his husky voice. "Can we sleep more? Please?"

Zayn nods, pecking his lips. "Sleep, babe," he says, the pet name slipping out of his mouth unconsciously. He stands up, fixing the sheets so it's covering Harry's body and walks to the shower. "I'm gonna—" he starts but before he can even finish, the light snores of Harry fill the room, making him chuckle.

He takes a quick shower, cleaning himself up, (what did you expect? He did have cum all over himself from last night) and wears jeans and sweaters, leaving to get breakfast. Thirty minutes later, he has two cups of coffee and croissants. When he enters his flat, Harry is already up and dressed which is an unfortunate event.

He looked glorious when he had nothing on.

"Good morning," Zayn flashes him a smile, placing the things in his hands on a table. "You took a shower?"

"Yes," Harry says and Zayn can _smell_ discomfort from his tune. "I hope you don't mind."

"Of course, I don't," Zayn cocks an eyebrow. Okay then, is that how it's going to be now? They're going to act all awkward and uncomfortable around each other? It was better—easier—when they were both naked.

"I have to go back to the hotel and get ready for my train this afternoon... it's quite late," Harry says, suppressing a yawn which makes Zayn want to kiss him. Why the fuck is a _yawn_ attractive?

Distracted, Zayn glances at his watch. "Me, too, I gotta get to work. But do you have time for breakfast?" He motions to the thing he has fetched. "I got coffee and croissants. You can't skip croissants when you are in Paris."

Harry looks at Zayn with a big smile and it's the closest he has come to the person he was last night which makes Zayn release a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I have time, if you do," Harry answers, standing up from the bed and stretching himself out.

He walks sluggishly towards the table and sits on a chair across Zayn and picks up his coffee, sipping from it. "Oh, it's good," he moans, licking his lips and Zayn can swear he can feel himself getting harder so he clears his throat.

"I think everything tastes good this morning," Zayn says and they exchange a look while Harry smirks swiftly. Zayn is starving—more hungry than he has been in ages—so he eats more than his fair share. When he realizes, he slows down, leaning back on his chair.

Outside, the church bell is ringing and neighbour's dog is barking. "So, I think I have an idea for a sketch. Or you know, a couple of them? Like a mini-story."

"Yeah? What's it about?" Harry asks, licking his finger with the pleasure of a small kid, chewing his croissant.

"It's about a boy who travels alone after being stood up by a good-for-nothing douche," Zayn says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully. Harry is dumbfounded at first but a smirk makes him perk up.

"Oh, I wouldn't draw that," he says, giving him a sideway look. "Who would believe it?"

"It's a good painting! He's a sight for the eye—he's beautiful, his visuals could make you believe in angels. He has a good personality as well."

"You have to make him look incredibly sexy."

"Oh, you only have to see him dancing in a bar to know it."

Harry smiles, rubbing the corner of his mouth, playing with his nose. "And what happens to him? In this _storyline_ of yours?"

"I don't know. Something pushes him out of habit. He cries at portraits, sleeps with strangers, wanders Paris streets." Zayn says, leaning over and feeding Harry a piece of Croissant. Then he kisses him.

The coffee and Croissant are forgotten as Zayn stands up, their lips still connected, and so does Harry. They stumble to the bed, carelessly playing with each other's bodies. They kiss, not pulling away for a second. Zayn's hands unbutton Harry's shirt as Harry forces Zayn out of his sweater.

They only pull away to unzip their trousers and kick them down, followed by their boxers and then they are there—stark naked in front of each other.

Zayn allows himself to hover over Harry. Last night, they were so gone at the moment to actually take each other in so Zayn does it this time. Harry's body is like a temple, his muscles visible under his stupidly soft skin. He is tall, sharp and handsome. Zayn can feel Harry's eyes studying him as well.

"Like what you see?" Zayn says with a smirk and Harry doesn't answer, just kisses him and that's enough of an answer for Zayn.

They kiss, their tongues balloting as if they were made for each other. They fit, they _know_ each other.

So they kiss, and they kiss some more.

And all the other plans are forgotten.

———

Sometime later, Zayn pulls up in front of the hotel behind rue de Rivoli. The roads are surprisingly quiet. A few tourists stroll by, looking up to take pictures of the building. He is late for work but the restaurant will only have a few customers on a Monday morning and Louis can cover for him. He will make up for it by taking his afternoon shift when the cafe is actually packed.

Behind him, Harry unwraps his arm from around Zayn's waist as he gets off the moped and takes off his helmet, running a hand through his messy curls so that he's standing in front of him in his leather jacket and crumpled shirt.

He looks tired and untidy and Zayn wants to wrap his arms around him and take him somewhere they can be alone and take care of him. He wants to cuddle him against his chest and let him sleep while listening to his light snores.

He can't, though. He has work to do and Harry has a train to catch.

"You sure you don't want me to take you to the station? You will be okay getting there on your own? You remember what I told you about Metro station?"

"You're already late for work. I got this."

They gaze at each other. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Zayn finds out that neither of them knows what they want to say—he sure as well doesn't so he takes off his helmet and ruffles his head.

"Well..." Harry says. Zayn waits. "I'd better get my suitcase. If it's still there."

"You will be okay? With this Xander? You don't want me to go in with you?"

"I can deal with _him_." Harry screws up his nose as if Xander is of no importance. Zayn wants to kiss it.

"So... Harry... will we... speak again?"

"I don't know, Zayn," Harry admits. "We don't really know anything about each other. We might have nothing in common and we live in different countries."

"This is true."

"Plus, we have two _perfect_ nights in Paris. It might be a shame to spoil it."

"This is also true."

Besides, you are a busy man. You have a job and a whole lot of things to paint. And I do want you to paint it, you know. Quite quickly. I really do want to know what visuals this boy will have."

Something has happened to Harry's face, Zayn realizes. He's different from the boy he saw three days ago, in the cafe, for the first time. He looks happy, relaxed, confident. He wonders how this could happen in forty-eight hours. He wishes he knew what to say to him. He doesn't though.

How do you say anything to the boy who is going to leave your life for good that very evening? How do you form words and left them out?

So he does something else. He reaches to his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper—the painting of the old lady—and hands it to Harry. "I didn't know why I took it this morning. It's probably ruined because, well, it was in my pocket. But... you know, I thought you'd like it."

Harry takes and his eyes perk up at the sight of the sketch. "Oh my god! Wow!" He, then, looks at Zayn sceptically. "You sure you want to give this to me?"

"Certain," Zayn nods with a smile. So does Harry as he carefully wraps the paper and holds it in his hands, glancing at the hotel.

The time is up—they both know it.

"Goodbye, then, Zayn," Harry is the first one to say the word.

"Goodbye, Harry," Zayn nods, putting his helmet back on. It's over, he needs to go. So does Harry. Finally, when they can stand no longer, Zayn kick-starts his moped and speeds down rue de Rivoli.

———

Harry is still smiling as he walks into the hotel. The receptionist is still behind her shiny desk. He wonders if the woman has a home or if she just spends all her time in the hotel. He realizes that he should be feeling embarrassed, turning up in last night's clothes but he cannot do anything but smile.

"Good morning, monsieur," the woman says.

"Good morning."

"I trust you had a good evening?"

The flashback of last night briefly fills his head as he smiles and nods. "Splendid, thank you. Paris is... so much more fun than I could ever imagine."

"I am very happy to hear that," she nods with a grin. Harry takes a deep breath, wondering what he should do next. Xander is probably pissed out of his mind and he wants to find the best approach to handle this so he won't spoil his day. Harry is not looking forwards to meeting Xander...

"Can I help you with anything monsieur?" the woman asks when Harry lingers there a bit too long.

"Oh, no," Harry smiles. "I just... have to go up and speak with my friend. I suspect he's just... going to be a bit cross that I did not include him in last night's plans."

Of course, he didn't. What would he include Xander in? A threesome with Zayn? He almost laughs from the thought.

"Then I'm sorry to say he's not here."

"No?" Harry's eyebrows shot up in confusion.

"A rule of hotel. I realized after you left that we cannot have someone using the room who is not the person who booked it and the room was in your name. So Rene had to ask him to leave."

"Rene?"

She nods towards the porter, a man who is the size of two back-to-back sofas standing upright. He is pushing a small trolley loaded with luggage. He gives them a small salute as he hears his name.

"So my... friend did not stay in my room?"

"No, we directed him to the hotel near Bastille. I'm afraid he was not very happy."

"Oh," Harry can't help but chuckle. He can actually picture Xander's angry, red face and the image makes him wanna laugh his arse off. Is he cruel for doing so?

"I apologize, monsieur if this causes you any inconvenience. But it was the hotel's regulation and once you were gone, it was a matter of security." Harry notices the receptionist's mouth is also twitching up in a faint smile and it relaxes him.

"A rule of hotel. Quite. It's, um, very important to stick to the rules," Harry grins. "Well, thank you so much."

"Your key," the receptionist hands it to Harry.

"Thanks."

"I hope you enjoyed your stay with us."

"Oh, I did," he says. "I will remember it... always."

"That is very good to hear," she says with a smile and with that, she's back to her paperwork.

———

Harry is in the train station, waiting for the speakers to announce his train and since he has nothing better to do, he turns on his phone. He had turned it off last night because what was the point of having your phone on when you were spending the night with a sexy artist you had picked up.

Harry smiles at the thought, going through the notification that pops up on his phone. Most of the texts are from Xander, a few from Nick with exclamation marks and capital letters which he deletes before even completely reading them. He doesn't want to ruin his merry mood by reading nonsense.

But the last one arrived at ten o'clock that morning and it's from Niall so he opens it.

**Are you OK? We are desperate for news. Xander sent Nick a very weird text last night and we can't work out what's going on.**

Harry grins, widely, hearing the digital voice of the speaker filling the place, announcing his train so he just sends a simple reply before taking his luggage and walking towards the departure gates with a big smile on his face.

**I had the best weekend EVER.**

———

**_SIX MONTHS LATER_ **

———

Harry pulls over in front of Gemma's house, waiting for his sister to get out of the car. They have been doing this every month since he returned from Paris with a 'reformed Harry' as Gemma calls him. They just spend the last weekend of every month with their mother, trying not to banter and lose their minds.

It's hard, but Harry finds it relaxing. It's good not to take what he has for granted and spending family time is definitely the way to go.

Zayn would be very impressed, he suspects.

"You wanna come in?" Gemma says, stretching her arms out. "We can have real alcohol. Mum's healthy drinks—Pepsi, for God's sake—don't do it for me. I can make us martinis?"

And who is Harry to turn down the offer for free drinks? That's why he finds himself on Gemma's couch, sipping from the glass she has offered him. "Gem, this is actually good."

"Told ya, little brother. No one fixes beverage like me."

"Very true," Harry smirks and stays quiet because he doesn't know what else to say. They have talked the whole day. Is there anything else left for saying?

"Well, Harold, when are you planning on going back to Paris?" Gemma asks after a while and makes Harry choke on his drink, coughing like his life depends on.

"What?" he asks after he has pulled himself together. "Why would I go back to Paris? It hasn't even been a year since I was last there. And I have a shit ton to do back here and—"

"You bloody well know why," Gemma interrupts his blabbering with an eye roll. "Look, I've never been afraid to hurt your feelings and I have to tell you this because you are my little brother and I have to make sure you have your shit sorted out."

"And?" Harry scoffs offendedly. "What does that have to Paris? Can't sort my shit in London?"

"Harry, baby, I'm talking about your _love life_? Zayn?"

The name leaving Gemma's mouth makes his heart skip a beat. He told all about Zayn to Gemma a few days after he returned to London. He was so certain that it was just a good experience and that he would forget him—as in the feelings he felt—after a couple of days but it hasn't been a day in the past six months that he hasn't thought about the raven-haired man he left behind in Paris.

"What about him?" Harry tried to fake an uninterested tone. "It was fun while it lasted. We both knew we weren't going to _last_ you know. It was just a one-time thing."

"Well, denying the truth that you have indeed been thinking about him in the past six months isn't the right approach baby bro. And it's certainly not going to get you laid."

Harry chokes on his drink again so he's forced to put his glass aside for the sake of his life.

"What? You didn't have to tell me you masturbate to him for me to know it's the truth."

"How did you know?" Harry asks, his cheeks flaming. Well, he _did_ sleep with a handsome _God_. he has the right to masturbate to him.

"I didn't," Gemma smirks. "But now, I know and you _have_ to go there and find him. I'm not going to say you _love_ him but you _are_ thinking of him and if you like him why not get him?"

"Gemma..." Harry says, feeling down. Because they live in different countries, because what if he ruins it, because what if it was all they were meant to be—just a sweet one-night stand?

"Look, I'm going to be blunt and just say it. Don't be like mum. Don't throw all your opportunities away. And don't be like _me_. Don't act like you don't need anyone because even if you don't _need_ Zayn, he was a good influence on you. He made you come out of the fucking hell you have made yourself to be. Coward, terrified at all times! He made you a better person in one single _weekend_ , imagine the effect he'll have on you for your entire life!"

"Okay, sister, you are clearly drunk," Harry dismisses the words leaving his sister's mouth as easy as that. "And I'm going to go before it gets too late. I had fun, thanks for the drink."

"Harry," Gemma says just before Harry opens the door. "Think about it. He was good for you."

Harry doesn't say anything. He just nods and closes the door behind himself.

———

Harry is sitting behind his table, just done with a manuscript and stares at the screen in front of him. Finally, he opens the browser and types _A Weekend in Paris_ and clicks on the search button. It takes a few seconds before the results are up and Harry is tempted to close the screen and never think of it again but he doesn't. Instead, he waits until the results are up.

The few first recommendations are ads for hotels and flight agencies alongside a few tickets offered for sale but what truly catches his eyes in the sixth website. 

_parisforone.com_

Feeling curious, he opens the URL, waiting patiently for it to load. The first page is a picture of Paris from above the Disneyland Ferris Wheel. He knows it because he has seen it—that night when Zayn took him there. He feels his heartbeat slowing and then rising rapidly.

He reads on. It's a website advertising for a newly opened art gallery with the artworks of "Zayn Malik, a newly raised English artist who has created a creative path in the streets of Paris with his art gallery, telling the story of a man who finds himself lost in the alleys of the City of Light with nothing but an open heart and willingness to discover the realms within himself".

Harry feels like crying. He feels overwhelmed, all the emotions inside him. He did it. He truly told the story of the boy.

He checks the dates. "The gallery has been on for more than a month now and will be over in two weeks. It has gained enormous attention between the locals and the tourists, everyone comparing the artworks of the young artist to those of Kahlo, the gallery that was up nearly six months ago and had dozens of visitors from all over," one article says about Zayn's artwork.

Harry feels like he can't stop smiling with his vision blurred with tears. So he made it.

And then, he makes an impulsive decision. He opens another tab and searches _Tickets for Paris_.

———

" _Merci_ ," Zayn says with a smile to the critic who is about to leave the gallery and who has showered him with endless compliments to the point where he subtly blushed. The man pats him on the shoulder before putting on his hat and walking out of the gallery.

Zayn huffs out a breath with a smile. He was seriously worried about what he would have to say about his paintings since his magazine was one of the most popular art magazines in France.

He can still remember the thrilling feeling he had when he finally decided that enough was enough and he needed to build something. He cleaned his apartment, void of any older piece of art and left his job at the café, deciding that he was willing to take the risk.

Someone believed in him, so why wouldn't _he_?

He spent over four months painting everything—the details, the scenery, the small incidents. He made their weekend come _alive_. He painted the boys, he painted their passion, he painted desire, lust and love.

He painted everything he felt and it worked. He used metaphors, he struggled, he cried while painting some, laughing while sketching others but at the end, it was worth it.

So he took a bunch of his artworks, going from one agency to the other, getting rejected each and every time until he wasn't getting rejected anymore.

Elisa, an art agent, saw potential in him and decided that he was worth the investment. So that's how he ended up there. In his exhibition of the conceptual paintings _Paris for One_ that tells the tales no one has ever told before.

Zayn is proud of himself, he is happy and he's hopeful but at times when he looks around, seeing _him_ everywhere, he wonders what Harry is doing. What is he up to?

Does he still scrunch up his nose when he laughs? Does he still lick the tips of his fingers after eating someone with his hands? Do his eyes still shine when he gets excited? Does still playing with his nose when he is thinking? Do his green eyes still turn a deeper shade of green when he gets horny?

He doesn't know. He doesn't fool himself into thinking that he'd know either. That's why he holds onto these paintings.

"Mate, it's amazing," Louis says, nearing him as he checks his phone. "A new review has been published. Fuck's sake—they have given you a 95 out of 100!"

"You serious?" Zayn says, looking at the article. Yes, they have. They have described him as 'possibly the best new rising artist this generation will see'. To say that he's flattered will be an understatement. "Fuck, Louis!"

"I know, right? This is amazing," Louis taps his shoulder, his expression turning a bit soft. "So when are you going to go back to England?"

And Zayn knows what he means. He doesn't mean _when are you going back to England to visit your parents_. He means _when are you going back to see Harry_. And Zayn doesn't know.

"Maybe I won't, Louis," he simply shrugs trying not to sound as hopeless as he feels. "I don't even know where he lives. Or if he's... single. He might be having sex with a hot boyfriend at this precise moment we are talking."

"That's crazy, you know it's not the truth," Louis remarks. "He liked you as well."

"Well, I don't know," Zayn rolls his eyes. "It has been six months, everything is possible. Is that Eleanor I see?" Zayn distracts his best mate and in seconds, Louis is gone to find his girlfriend.

Zayn chuckles, walking around the gallery, tipping his head for a few people who recognize him and smiling at his works until he sees someone that makes him freeze, his whole body going rigid.

A boy—a boy he knows—is standing in front of one of his paintings; a familiar sight he had not seen too long ago. His green eyes are staring at one painting Zayn has drawn of him from the back, the secrets of the world represented in him.

There he is; Harry Styles in flesh.

Zayn can't believe his eyes. He can't believe how his heart is begging him to get out of his chest. He can't believe the one person he thought he'd never see again would be there.

Harry still hasn't noticed him so he stares as him, quite mesmerized that even if he wanted, he wouldn't be able to look away.

And history repeats itself as a drop of tears runs down his cheek and Harry, not taking his eye off the painting, raises his hand and wipes it away. Just like the very first time that he had Zayn mesmerized.

Harry, then, turns his head away, and his eyes fix themselves on Zayn.

They gaze at each other, Zayn can swear he feels his heart dropping as seconds turn into minutes. Harry's eyes widen, his glassy green eyes shining, his lips pressed to each other in a line that reveals no emotion.

"Harry," Zayn finally breathes out. "You are here?" It's supposed to be a statement but it turns out to be a question because quite frankly, Zayn can not believe his eyes. He has changed—his hair now trimmed short, his long locks gone, his skin a bit darker probably because of the summer sun and his feature more grown-up. But it's still Harry. Zayn knows it in his bones.

"I am here," Harry confirms, inching closer to Zayn, delicately as if he shares the same fear as Zayn—that the other person will vanish in front of their eyes. "You made it," he says, motioning to the gallery.

"You told me you wanted to know what will happen to the boy," Zayn simply says, his voice shaking a bit but he's sure he won't cry. He won't spoil it. "I had to make it."

"Yes..." Harry breathes. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Me, too," Zayn admits. "But you came."

"I couldn't _not_ come," Harry says with a dimple-showing smile. "You were telling the story of me—I deserve to see it." Zayn nods. "Besides, I missed you..." Harry ends it in a whisper and Zayn's heart skips a beat.

"I missed you, too..." Zayn admits. What's the point of hiding away anyway? Even if his heart is going to break, let Harry be the heartbreaker. Let Harry be the one who makes him fall in love, let Harry be _the one_. "I missed you like the air I needed to breathe."

It's cheesy, he knows that and if it was any other day, they'd make fun of it but it's not. Harry is there and he needs to let him know how much he means to him. He needs to let him know that he has been the muse to all his works in the past six months.

"Well, how does the story end, then?" Harry asks, closing the last step between them, so they're chest-to-chest, almost in each other's embrace. "I'm only halfway through the section."

"I don't know," Zayn says. "The characters are quite strong in the head—they need to figure it out themselves."

"Yeah?" Harry says with a smile, his arms snaking around Zayn's waist. "Well, I did always want a happy ending..." He breathes into Zayn's mouth before putting his lips on Zayn's and kisses him like he had always dreamt of doing.

Zayn leans into the kiss and he can feel his heart burning with desire.

And this is it—this is what he wanted.

A love that consumes him.

A happy adventurous boy in his arms to cherish forever.

A Paris romance.


End file.
